


Hold Tight, Fear Not, And We'll See Through This Night

by Ostentenacity



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Asexual Character, Canon Compliant through MAG 160, Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Content Warnings in Chapter Notes, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eye!Basira, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Minor Character Death, Physical hurt/comfort, The Admiral Is Fine Don't Worry, Wildly Speculative Entity Powers, implied aro-spec basira and daisy, post MAG 160
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:20:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 75,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22501639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ostentenacity/pseuds/Ostentenacity
Summary: In the aftermath of the breaking of the world, Jon and Martin set out for London and their friends.Under the gaze of the Ceaseless Watcher, Basira searches high and low for Daisy.And among the twisted streets of home, Georgie and Melanie start fighting back.---Sometimes, all you need is love, hope, and the willingness to roll up your sleeves and do what needs doing. A post-season 4 canon divergence where it's possible to earn a happy ending after all.
Relationships: Basira Hussain & Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Georgie Barker & Jonathan Sims, Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 411
Kudos: 407





	1. Three Weeks

**Author's Note:**

> Title swiped from the ballad of Tam Lin. (If you’re curious, the specific version is the one in the novel An Artificial Night by Seanan McGuire.)
> 
> Individual content warnings will be in the end notes of each chapter. Rated T for swears and canon-typical violence/body horror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [NovaCorium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NovaCorium) for beta reading this chapter!
> 
> (edit 2/4/20: fixed a continuity goof in Martin and Basira's conversation)

Dimly, Basira is aware that she’s operating on autopilot. It’s not really a conscious decision; it’s just that it’s easier to get things done when she doesn’t have to worry about having a breakdown in the middle. Give the police a version of events they’ll believe. Tell the medics what they want to hear until they let her go. Head home and change into clothes with less sweat and blood smeared on them. Mechanically eat until she’s pretty sure she won’t faint anytime soon.

(Ruthlessly derail every train of thought that strays too close to the events of the past few hours.) 

Sending off Jon and Martin takes up nearly all her remaining strength. Telling them how to get to one of the safehouses means she has to think about whose safehouse it is, which burns through at least three hours’ worth of emotional remove and leaves her feeling hollowed-out and fragile. As she leaves Martin’s place, headed back to her own flat, her thoughts dance along the edge of a knife. There’s something hidden there, something she’s not allowed to think about until she’s at home, in private, with nobody to see when she finally lets herself grieve—

There’s another half hour of remove, sliced away. Basira steers her whirring brain back to safer topics. 

By the time she reaches her street, her hands are shaking. It’s a good thing none of her neighbors are around; she looks a mess, and knows it. The last thing she wants to deal with right is a bunch of friendly, concerned strangers. Basira takes the stairs rather than the lift; nobody in her building uses the stairs if they can help it, so she’s sure not to run into anyone. On a hunch, she pauses on the landing of her floor, ear to the door, and then waits a minute and a half for the woman who lives three doors down to leave the corridor—her tread is distinctive, limping slightly due to an old injury. When she’s sure that the hallway is empty, Basira quickly crosses to her flat. It takes three tries to get the key into the lock, but she manages it. 

And then, finally, she’s safe inside. 

Basira wastes no time walking to the nearest soft surface and sitting. She’s danced all the way to the tip of the knife, and now she has nowhere to go but down.

* * *

When she finally comes back to herself, it’s early afternoon. Not the afternoon of the same day, though—it was midmorning when she got back, and she’s pretty sure she’s slept at least fourteen hours since then. It was a little hard to keep track of the time. 

She can remember what it was she was trying so hard not to think of, though. Daisy is gone. Still alive, but nonetheless gone forever, because Basira has promised to hunt her down and kill her. 

_Fuck._

* * *

Basira spends another day in her flat. 

She does realize that she’s avoiding the problem. It would be pointless to pretend she isn’t. But that doesn’t mean that she doesn’t need the time. She definitely didn’t eat enough the previous day, and her sleep schedule is completely messed up, and she won’t be able to—to keep her promise if she’s still on the verge of collapse. 

But after a while, the guilt piles up too high for her to ignore it any longer. She begins combing the news, looking for any hint of Daisy. There’s nothing, of course; it’s much too early for rumors of anything so far-fetched to hit the papers. There’s plenty about the attack on the Institute, though. Basira skims through it, rehearsing in her head the story she’ll feed to the police if they come around asking. 

Once, frustrated by her complete lack of leads, she tries to See where Daisy is, the way Jon would probably be able to. There’s nothing; Basira has no door inside her mind. She doesn’t even give herself a headache. 

It bothers her, though. She’s definitely gotten a few flickers of inexplicable information lately; she doesn’t want to admit it, even to herself, but it’s true. When she visited Martin and Jon in order to direct them to the safehouse, she had been able to find Martin’s flat without knowing his street, let alone his exact address. Not only that; she’d even known that his front door had been unlocked before she had even entered the building. But now, when she actually wants to make use of her new ability, it’s gone. 

Clearly, she’s missing something; there’s some piece of the puzzle she hasn’t worked out. It nags at her as she gets ready for bed. Falling asleep is a chore, but she manages in the end. 

* * *

The knowledge _wasn’t_ inexplicable. 

That is Basira’s first thought upon waking the next morning. Her second is that her stomach muscles hurt; the force of her epiphany had driven her bolt upright the instant she was awake. Her third thought is that she’s getting soft; in addition to the ache in her abdomen, there’s a bone-deep weariness through her entire body, despite the fact that she’s been asleep for ten hours. 

But back to the first thought, the one still reverberating in the inside of her skull, loud as the tolling of a bell in a clocktower. 

Before, when she’d had information the others had been suspicious of, she’d mostly brushed off their concerns. She’d always assumed she’d _known_ where it had come from. She’d read something somewhere, or someone had let slip some scrap in passing, or she’d worked it out on her own. 

But sometimes, she _hadn’t_ known whatever it was that led, inevitably, to her conclusion. Or at least, she hadn’t known enough. She’d known that Martin’s flat was somewhere in Stockwell; she also knew a bit about him, his personal tastes in decoration and surroundings. But putting together those sparse pieces shouldn’t have been enough to bring her to his door. Likewise, she hadn’t bothered knocking when she’d entered; it was Martin’s flat, so he must’ve been first through the door, and Jon had been in no state to think about locks at the time. The conclusion had seemed so _obvious,_ the evidence so incontrovertible, that Basira hadn’t bothered to puzzle at her own conviction. 

She’d been led, not down the most likely path, but down the correct one, and the evidence had filled itself in behind. No wonder people keep calling her “detective”—she’s a proper Sherlock Holmes. 

A dry laugh squeezes itself out of her throat. 

Well. It’s… it’s a bad sign, obviously, that she’s developing supernatural abilities. But as long as Basira has this ability anyway, she may as well use it. Just to find Daisy, she promises herself. She doesn’t want to turn into another Jon. She’ll find Daisy quickly, before she has a chance to go too far down this road, and she’ll do what needs to be done, and then she’ll quit. She doesn’t kid herself that it’ll be easy, but she knows she can do it. Daisy had been so strong, so good at resisting, and she’d been in the grip of the Hunt much longer than Basira has been working for the Eye. 

Basira goes back to her computer, energized by fresh resolve. She opens the same news stories that she looked over yesterday, and tries to open her mind to the connections, let herself draw whatever conclusions strike her as likely. It shouldn’t take too long, she reasons. She’ll see just the right fragment of information, and then she’ll—not just _Know,_ she supposes, but she’ll be able to figure it out. It will happen. Any moment now. 

She can just feel it. 

* * *

By the end of the day, Basira is forced to conclude that she could not, in fact, just feel it. She had gone through all the big sites first, then the independents, and then, in a fit of desperation, the tabloids. She’d even combed through hours and hours’ worth of Twitter posts, looking for any mention of a large wild animal loose on the streets of London, but there was nothing aside from stray cats, dogs, and the occasional bird. 

Today, she does develop a headache. She’s not sure whether that’s an encouraging sign or not. 

* * *

It takes a while, but finally, the police contact Basira to follow up. 

She recognizes one of the officers interviewing her. He’s Sectioned, as she’d expected given the Institute’s involvement. She knows him, actually, though not well. His partner is new. Basira tries and fails to keep herself from imagining herself and Daisy in the place of these two. 

Basira does not try to conceal her exhaustion and distress from the detective as she relays her carefully-constructed account of running and hiding in the archives from two unknown armed invaders. As she’d hoped, it seems to help convince the detective that she’s telling the truth. She can tell from the tenor of the questions that the police haven’t figured out about the Sasha-monster, so she doesn’t enlighten them. It’s not like they could do anything about it, anyway. Best let the Hunt take care of it. 

She’s washing up the dishes from lunch when the realization pins her in place. She’d known that the police didn’t know about the Sasha-thing. But she’d figured it out almost instantly. There’s no way she could have naturally deduced that the officers hadn’t heard a single report of a third assailant, not from brief pleasantries and a question or two about when the attack had started. The first actually pertinent question had been “how many of them were there?” and by that time, she’d already known how to respond. 

Basira curses herself under her breath. It had happened again, over something totally inconsequential, and she hadn’t even noticed! 

Abandoning the dishes, she sits down. How had she known? 

The answer comes almost immediately, as if it had been lurking in the back of her mind, waiting for her to think that exact thought. The detective had asked how many attackers there were, which meant they knew there was more than one, and were trying to corroborate multiple stories without contaminating the eyewitness accounts. But he had asked the question as if by rote, sounding bored, so they had already settled on a number and weren’t expecting a surprise. And she’d known the number was two because... 

...Because the junior partner had been calm. She was too young to have been police long, let alone Sectioned; in fact (the conclusions are flying heavy and thick through her mind now, making her dizzy), this was her very first time working this kind of case. But she hadn’t seemed freaked out at all, more resigned to her fate. Everything to do with the Magnus Institute was handled under Section 31, which is why she’d had to sign the papers, but she hadn’t heard or seen anything properly weird yet. If any of the others they’d spoken with had described the Sasha monster—or Daisy, for that matter—the junior cop would have been either spooked or ostentatiously skeptical. But she was bored, which meant business as usual, which meant the police only knew about Montauk and Herbert, the two human-shaped attackers. 

The chain of causation is crystal-clear in Basira’s mind. Each link is so delicate; there’s nowhere near enough information to ensure that her conclusions are reliable. But she can _feel_ the rightness of it, all the way down to her bones. 

Now that she’s on a roll, Basira tries to push past the rapidly-intensifying dizziness to see if she can glean anything about Daisy’s whereabouts. But after just a minute or two she has to sprint to the toilet, stomach churning. It seems she’s done for the day; her bones ache as though she’d just finished running a marathon, even though she’d only been sitting in her kitchen. 

Still, now that she’s done it on purpose once, maybe she’ll have better luck in her search. 

* * *

A few days later, Basira gets a phone call from an unknown number. 

Her first thought is that it’ll be a welcome distraction, no matter what the call is about. Her work hasn’t become less frustrating since her first breakthrough, unfortunately. The bright, frantic rushes of information that she’s taken to calling her hunches haven’t stopped coming, but they’re almost always about irrelevant topics, and end up tiring her out and taking her away from the search. 

But then it occurs to her that it could be some enemy of the Institute on the line. She hasn’t read anything in the archives about cursed phone calls, has she? 

Slowly, she brings the handset to her ear, half-expecting a threat. “Hello?” she says cautiously. 

To her relief, it’s only Martin. “Hi, Basira,” he answers. He sounds better than he did when last they talked; his voice is stronger, less wispy. Cheerful, even. “Did you know there’s no signal in the village where you sent us? I’m calling from a _phone box!”_

“Good to hear you made it to the house in one piece,” says Basira. “Have you had any trouble? Jon been keeping himself in check?” 

“Yes, of course,” says Martin. Sharply, like he used to sound every time someone had been either rude to—or overly friendly with—Jon. Back before the Unknowing, anyway. “I mean—no, no trouble, yes, Jon’s fine.” 

“Is he going to stay that way?” asks Basira. “You’re sure his resolve is holding up?” 

“I’m sure,” says Martin, still with that new-old edge in his voice. “He’s at the house right now, actually. Didn’t feel up to braving the village this morning.” 

“Sounds more like avoidance than resolve to me.” 

“He knows his limits and he’s sticking to them.” Martin sounds properly cross now. “Now, I thought I was calling you so that we could check in, but if this conversation is just for you to, to _scold_ me for telling you the truth about how Jon’s doing—” 

“No—no. Sorry. I do believe you, it’s just—” Basira can’t quite find the necessary words to finish off that sentence. It’s just, everything’s awful? It’s just that Daisy’s gone and Jon is still there, when Daisy was the one who was actually _succeeding_ at not being a monster and Jon wasn’t even _trying_ and it’s not _fair—  
_

Basira takes a few deep breaths. 

On the other end of the phone, Martin is quiet. Waiting for her to finish talking, probably. The silence stretches, and when it’s clear Basira isn’t going to break it anytime soon, he fills the space instead. “It’s fine. Any news about the Institute? There’s no signal or internet in the house, and we figured it was best to try not to spend too much time in the village, so…” 

“Well, it’s still a crime scene,” says Basira. “Not sure exactly what crime the police have settled on, but definitely a crime scene.” 

“Are they looking for us? Are we, I dunno, missing persons?” 

“Well, they know you work at the Institute, and unless one of you has answered your cell phone very unwisely, they’ll know they haven’t been able to get in touch with you. But you may not be officially missing, especially if nobody’s been able to positively confirm that you were in the building when everything started happening.” 

“Well, that’s good. Wait. It is good, right?” 

“For our purposes, yes. I’ve been doing what I can to help on that score—told them I wasn’t sure I’d seen you come in that morning—but that won’t stop them if they’re really determined to find you.” It’s very odd being on this side of a police investigation. A Section 31 investigation, no less. “But right now, they’re not trying. I’ll try to alert you if that changes.” 

“Thank you,” says Martin. 

“I may not be able to reach you in time, if it does change,” Basira warns him. 

“Even so.” 

“And...” Basira sighs. She doesn’t really want to ask, doesn’t want to waste time on what feels like pleasantries, but she does legitimately need to ensure that they’re not about to try and relocate without consulting her. “You’re both all right, at the safehouse? It’s not exactly the most comfortable place, but—” 

“Oh, we’re fine,” says Martin cheerfully. A little _too_ cheerfully, actually; Basira has never actually been to the house they’re staying in, but Daisy had shown her a few pictures so that she’d know it if she needed to find it, and it’s not well-appointed. “It’s quite lovely, actually.” 

“ _Lovely_ isn’t the word I’d use for it.” She frowns. “Is there something I should know about?” 

“No,” says Martin quickly. 

“Martin, if you two are keeping secrets from me—” 

“I’ll tell you if you want! I will! I just—I don’t think you’ll really be interested in it much? It’s just a bit of, of news about Jon and me. Well, it’s not _news_ , really, more like—gossip. Can you gossip about yourself?” 

“Oh my god.” Basira pinches the bridge of her nose. At least Martin seems to have taken the hint and stopped talking. “Never mind. Anything actually relevant?” 

“I don’t think—Oh! I know you said the Institute is a crime scene right now, but when you get a chance to get back into the archives—”

“I’ll send you some statements.” 

“Thanks.” 

There’s a another lull in the conversation after that, both sides having run out of important topics. After a moment, Martin speaks up again. “So... if that’s all, I should probably start heading back?” 

“Sure,” Basira replies. “We should check in again soon. Next week, same time?” 

“Next week, same time. Basira—” He pauses, seeming to rethink whatever he was going to say. “Take care, all right?” 

“Yeah. You too. Bye.” Basira sets the phone back down and returns to her mostly-fruitless search.

But something about the conversation itches at her, in the way she’s come to recognize is a symptom of an impending realization. She tries to put it out of her mind. Following these hunches often leaves her tired out, and she’d really like to make progress on the Daisy problem, and not whatever it is that’s going on with Martin. 

* * *

Basira’s resolve lasts about three hours, at which point the itch at the back of her mind has grown so obtrusive that continuing to ignore it is silly. She lies down in bed—she’s probably going to end up there afterwards, so she might as well save time—and asks herself what’s bothering her about the phone call. 

She’s been getting better at realizing things in the right order and exercising some control on the whole experience. Instead of jumping straight to the conclusion, she follows the cascade of causation from beginning to end. 

The thing that had bothered her on the phone was that Martin had sounded so _normal._ The months and months of coldness, avoidance, and passive aggression seemed not to have changed him at all. Even if it was all an act—and Basira doesn’t think it was an act, given who he was working for at the time—he should have had _habits._ He’s not exactly the most eloquent conversationalist at the best of times; he’s definitely not smooth enough to be able to cover the sorts of gaffes that he _should have been making._

He’d gotten a bit snippy when Basira had pestered him about Jon’s behavior, but aside from that he hadn’t been rude, even in passing. He’d readily agreed to another call. He’d even apparently been doing something _gossip-worthy_ with Jon, whatever that meant. He hadn’t once tried to end the conversation early. He’d been _friendly._

What had Jon _done_ to him, to make him return to his previous self so easily? 

Something, clearly. Even if he wasn’t entirely back to normal—and given that he’d still seemed a bit _off_ last week when she’d visited to tell them both about the safehouse, that seemed likely—that kind of turnaround doesn’t happen naturally. 

So Jon had—had used his abilities to make Martin come back from being mixed up in the Lonely. Good to know, she supposes. A bit anticlimactic for something that had been bothering her all afternoon. Except—

Except that that’s not it. Whatever realization it is that’s bothering her, she hasn’t reached it yet. Basira casts about for the right question. Why is this relevant? Why should she care? 

Because Jon’s abilities come from the Beholding. And _her_ abilities come from the Beholding. And though they might not be able to do exactly the same things, if Jon can use the Eye’s influence to free people from the grasp of the other Fears, then Basira might be able to do the same thing, with practice. 

Daisy might have a chance after all. 

And... there’s the exhaustion. The itch is gone, and the new knowledge is making her bones sing. It’s not even all supernatural, this time; the realization that she has a chance to actually fix things is dizzying. 

It’s good, though. When she drifts off to sleep, she feels lighter than she has in weeks. 

* * *

The next week passes without incident. The Institute is still closed, the police still apparently disinterested in the whereabouts of its (erstwhile?) director and head archivist. Basira doesn’t have anything new to tell Martin when he calls, except to reassure him that she’ll send some statements when she can. 

He still sounds improbably personable and happy, considering—Well. Everything. It’s a good sign, she reminds herself. A good omen for Daisy. 

Four days later, the Institute is re-opened in the wake of what the police have decided to call a “terror attack,” which is so painfully apropos it actually makes Basira laugh when she first finds out. As soon as she gets to the archives, she grabs a stack of paper statements, and then, upon reflection, adds an armful of tapes to the pile. She stuffs them into a padded envelope and ships them off to Scotland that very day. 

She gets another call from Martin, right on schedule. This time, she’s at the Institute when her phone rings; she’s been poring over the statements in the archives, looking for cases of people escaping the Entities’ influence. “Hello, Basira,” says Martin when she picks up the phone. “Institute back open, I guess?” 

“Yes. You got the statements I sent, then?” 

“Yeah, I went to the post office them up just before calling.” There’s a rustling sound, as if Martin is shaking or crinkling the envelope next to the receiver so she can hear. 

They trade news for a minute or two, which is to say, they reassure each other that they don’t have anything important to say. Martin does chuckle over the _terror attack,_ though. Eventually, Basira can’t hold the question in anymore. “Martin—after Jon brought you back, how hard was it not to... relapse, so to speak? Do you have to consciously stop yourself, or are you back to how you were before—before the Unknowing, I guess?” 

“Uh,” says Martin. “...How did you know Jon brought me back?” 

“It was obvious.” 

“Uh...huh. Okay. Um.” Basira can practically hear the gears grinding in his head as he decides to let that lie. “I guess it’s difficult, sometimes, but honestly, it hasn’t been _that_ hard. I don’t… well, I don’t _want_ to go back to the way I was, when I was working with Peter. Sometimes, mostly when I’m stressed about something, it feels like slipping back into the fog might be, I dunno, easier? Like it would make my life less complicated? But even then, it’s… I can recognize the way I’m thinking is—artificially distorted, I guess? I’m _much_ worse at self-deception these days.” He chuckles briefly. “It helps that Jon is always there to help me when I’m feeling low, and to know that he lo—that he cares about me.” 

“That’s it? You just don’t _want_ to go back? That’s enough?” Basira can hear the disbelief dripping out of her own voice. 

“Well, not exactly. There have been some days when I just can’t muster the will to do… anything, really. And I’m tired a lot, still. But the fact that I’m not willing to give in is probably most of it.” He pauses, considering. “Maybe it’s easy—well, relatively easy—for me to stay away from the Lonely because I want something that’s antithetical to it a lot more than I want _it._ Sometimes, when I’m around strangers in the village, I wish I could just disappear so that they couldn’t look at me anymore. But if I think about it for more than half a second I stop wanting that, because getting that kind of power would mean leaving Jon.” He pauses again. “I think the thing is—it’s easy, but it’s not painless. I’m not _cured,_ I’m just... not slipping deeper. Why do you ask?” 

The sudden question takes her by surprise. “Ah—well, I was just, I was wondering if Jon, if he might be able to do the same for other people.” She grimaces at her clumsy tongue. 

There’s the briefest of pauses, and for a heartbeat Basira is absolutely sure that Martin has figured out her whole plan for Daisy, but then he starts talking and the moment passes. “There’s a thought. That would be, well, amazing. I just hope he won’t have to take a live statement before each one, if we try it.” 

She hums in agreement. The conversation winds down, and they say their customary good-byes. 

Basira’s mind is buzzing with possibilities. She doubts that bringing Daisy back and keeping her away from the Hunt’s influence will be as simple a process as what Martin seems to be going through. But it’s possible—not just to get free, but also apparently to stay that way. 

She decides to head home a little early. Peter’s influence is fading, but the building still feels strangely quiet and lonesome, and the atmosphere is oddly distracting considering that it’s characterized by a lack of actual distractions. 

She packs her bag and heads out the door. 

* * *

It is sheer luck that saves her life. 

When the Tube becomes a warren of twisting tunnels, each more dark and cramped than the last, Basira is not below ground. When the Thames widens until the water stretches to the very horizon and beyond, snapping bridges and stranding boats, Basira is not caught. When the panopticon of Millbank Prison rises upon a tower of twisting concrete so tall that there is no place in London from which it cannot be seen, Basira is not there. 

She is in her flat, staring out the window in horror along with the entire world, watching the sky pull back like a lid to reveal the great Eye that watches and knows and does not understand. And she is suddenly, brutally, utterly _aware_ that the world will never be right again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for this chapter: None.
> 
> Tell me your favorite line, if you like :)


	2. Out of Eden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jon and Martin go camping, an old frenemy makes an appearance, and a ring is acquired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: this chapter is almost twice as long as all the others because so much darn stuff happens! I tried to shorten it but it didn’t let me :( The rest of them should be about the same length as chapter 1.
> 
> Thanks to [astralchaos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/astralchaos), Chase, and [NevillesGran](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NevillesGran) for beta reading this chapter!
> 
> Content warnings in the end notes.

It takes more time for Martin and Jon to decide to return to London than it takes for them to pack up their belongings. Apparently, they hadn’t settled into Daisy’s safehouse as much as they’d thought.

Objectively, three weeks isn’t a very long time, but to Martin it had felt like years. He and Jon had arrived at the cottage afraid, exhausted, and at the very end of their respective ropes. This morning—

_—he wakes up to the sight of Jon’s face, smiling at him from across the pillow, just like yesterday, just like every morning the past week, and he’s going to keep waking up to that sight every morning from now on, because Jon promised—_

Martin sucks in a ragged breath and ruthlessly wipes the tears from his face. There’s no time for him to grieve. Right now, they have to move.

Jon joins him by the door. As they each had packed their bags, bruises had blossomed all over Jon’s face and hands, followed by gleaming, mismatched eyes, nestled in his myriad scars. Each one had been rimmed with a crust of blood to match the dry, cracked scarlet tear tracks that had run down his face. Martin is relieved to see that the furrows at his throat and around his eyes have mostly healed over, though he suspects there will be scars. At least the blood is all washed off now.

Both of them carry a single bag: a knapsack for Jon, a duffel for Martin. They can’t take as many things as they want to, traveling on foot as they are, and London is a long way away. Martin had suggested the train, but the words had barely left his mouth before Jon had shuddered convulsively. A dozen eyes had opened and closed in the pockmarked scars on his face in a barely-audible susurrating ripple, the glow behind the lid of each one taking several minutes to fade.

“The trains are—not safe,” Jon had told him, in a cracked, worn-through voice. “Even if they were still running, we definitely wouldn’t survive long on board.”

So walking it is. At least they probably won’t get lost, with Jon leading the way.

Martin is brought back to the present by a hand on his elbow. He looks down to see Jon offering him what looks like a sheathed combat knife, hilt first. Martin’s surprise and alarm must show on his face, because Jon ducks his head slightly and says, “Back of the linen closet. Daisy...”

“Ah,” says Martin so that Jon won’t have to elaborate further. From the state of his voice, every word must hurt. Martin takes the knife, hands fumbling and unfamiliar on the grip. It takes him a moment to figure out how to clip it to his belt. When that’s done, he glances back at Jon, who is still unarmed. His stomach twists again at the sight of the not-quite-fully-healed scratches on Jon’s throat, from where he’d tried to stop his own voice.

“Nothing for you?” asks Martin.

Jon shakes his head. Martin’s throat, chest, and stomach all ache at the sight of Jon hunched and silent, but he doesn’t know what to do or say to make it better. And besides, Jon’s throat really does sound very torn up, so maybe the quiet is for the best.

“Nothing in the house, or do you just not want to be armed?” asks Martin.

In response, Jon first pats his knapsack, then holds up his hands for Martin to see. They’re nearly skeletal, like the rest of him, and there’s a distinct tremor in them that definitely wasn’t there earlier.

“You packed more, but don’t think you can use them?” Martin guesses.

Jon nods, shoulders slumping a little in relief.

“All right then. Time to go.” Martin tries to inject a bit of cheer into his voice, but fails utterly. The two of them stare at the closed door of the cottage together. For a long moment, neither of them move or speak. Then all at once, Martin turns and sweeps Jon into his arms at the same moment that Jon flings his own arms around Martin’s shoulders, burying his face in Martin’s neck. A damp spot begins to seep into the collar of Martin’s shirt, and he feels his own tears start up again.

Finally, they disentangle themselves, both sniffling, both still trembling from the fear that hasn’t abated since that first awful moment the sky opened above them. Martin turns the doorknob with a hand that shakes, and he and Jon walk side by side into a nightmare.

* * *

It’s surprisingly simple to navigate the world outside the cottage.

Not that traversing the apocalyptic hellscape isn’t _completely and utterly awful._ It is most certainly that. But it’s not exactly _complicated._

As they trek through the warped countryside, putting one foot in front of the other gradually becomes both easier and harder. Easier, because Martin rapidly picks up on a variety of warning signs from watching Jon’s reactions: a patch of sucking mud he gives a wide berth, the distant baying of hounds that causes him to change direction, a sudden sweltering wind that forces him (and Martin, following close behind) to hastily backtrack for fifteen minutes. And harder, because the longer Martin walks under the Eye, with a dozen flavors of terror wrestling for space under his lungs, the more the effort of putting one foot in front of the other feels like a physical weight dragging him into the dirt.

Every now and then, they come in sight of a road. Jon doesn’t need any kind of path or signage to navigate, so much of what they’ve actually been walking over has been farmland and wilderness. After the fifth smoking wreck that Martin sees in the distance, he stops wishing for tarmac under his feet.

The first time he had seen one of the twisted, smoldering cars on the side of the road, he had asked Jon if there had been any survivors. Without hesitating for a moment, Jon had said, “No humans.” He’d repeated those words every time Martin had spied another crash, though Martin hadn’t asked again.

Eventually, the sky begins to darken. The Eye doesn’t close or even blink, but the pupil expands to envelop the searingly radiant iris, and the light turns into a dim, sickly glow that seems to creep under the skin rather than pierce it. It’s no less invasive, but it is harder to navigate by, so Martin starts looking for a place to rest. They had set out after noon, meaning they’ve been walking less than half a day, but they’re both exhausted already.

When at last they spot a suitably sheltered flat spot, it’s nearly full night. Martin puts up the tent he’d found in the attic while Jon arranges the one sleeping bag and the blankets they’d been able to fit in the duffel. Martin tries not to feel hurt that Jon clearly intends to sleep apart from him for the first time in three weeks. There are much more important things to worry about.

“We’ll probably need to keep watch during the night,” says Martin.

Jon nods.

“Shall I stay up first?”

A shrug, then a nod. Jon’s hands are clasped so tightly in front of him that his knuckles are pale even in the gloom.

Martin forces himself to eat some of the food they’d brought with them before propping himself up against their bags. He gives Jon a stern look until he finally chokes down a cereal bar, but no amount of coaxing will make him eat more. As Jon curls up under the blankets, the silence stretches between them, misshapen and awful.

Martin forces himself to get up and look outside every few minutes. No point in keeping watch if he’s not actually watching. After the third or fourth time, he happens to glance down at Jon and sees that his eyes are still open. Not his original eyes—those are clenched tight. But three of the little ones nestled in the worm scars fix on Martin’s face, and as he flinches from their piercing gaze, another one opens in the back of Jon’s right hand.

“Sorry,” whispers Jon. “I can’t—it’s really hard to close them all at once.”

“It’s okay,” says Martin softly. “Having trouble sleeping?”

“Yes? But also no.” Jon sits up a little, opening his original eyes. The one on his hand shuts, but the little ones stay open, drifting in three different directions. “I’m not sure I can sleep,” he admits, sounding almost guilty. His hands twist together, holding too tight.

“What do you mean?” asks Martin. He sits down beside Jon, close enough to touch, but doesn’t reach out, unsure if it would be welcome.

“I can’t—I’ve been dreaming this whole time, I think,” says Jon. His voice is still very hoarse, but it sounds a little better than earlier that day, at least. “Dreaming other people’s dreams, anyway. But I wasn’t—I haven’t been unaware of my surroundings. I’m not even tired. I mean—my legs have been tired. It feels good to lie down. But I don’t feel like I need to sleep.” He looks down at the ground with all five eyes. He sounds—

He sounds _ashamed._ As if he were doing something wrong by telling Martin how he feels.

Martin reaches over and gently takes Jon’s hands. His wrists are thin and bony—not unusual for Jon, but it looks like he’s lost weight just in the last 24 hours, enough to be noticeable. Jon’s hands tremble in his, but he doesn’t pull away.

“Thank you for telling me, Jon,” says Martin. “I’m so sorry this is happening to you.”

Jon looks up, thunder in his expression. “ _Sorr—_ you’re sorry this is happening to _me?_ It’s happening to _you,_ and to seven bil—to _everyone else,_ too! Why are you sorry about what’s happening to _me,_ of all people? I _caused_ it!” His thin voice breaks on the last word, and suddenly he’s crying again, just like he did after the Eye first opened.

Martin reaches out and tries to pull Jon into his arms, but Jon pulls away, tears rolling down his face from—yes, it does seem that his newer eyes can cry as well. That’s... not important right now.

“Jon. I need you to listen to me.” There’s a ripple of motion across the pocked side of Jon’s face, but he takes a deep breath, and all except his two original eyes close. Martin keeps talking. “You categorically did not cause this. No, shhh, I’m still talking.” Martin can’t help it; he reaches down to gently brush a tear from Jon’s cheek. For all that he didn’t want Martin to pull him close before, Jon leans desperately into the touch, like a cat returned from a week of being lost. “I know that you think you did, because the words were put into your mouth, but I know you didn’t _mean_ to do this, and I know you didn’t _want_ it to happen. That’s what counts in my book.” Martin takes a deep breath, searching for the right words. “Jon. I am so sorry that you’re hurting. You don’t deserve what’s happening right now, not at all. I know there’s probably not much I can do, but if there is _anything_ that will make it better, even just a little bit, then you should tell me so that I can do it.”

Jon makes a tiny sound like the wind has been knocked out of him, and then he collapses across Martin’s chest, back shaking. It takes Martin a moment to realize that he’s speaking, muffled as he is. “Martin—I’m sorry—thank you—I’m sorry—”

Martin strokes Jon’s hair. He can feel the tears start to drip down his own face now, but he’s not crying from fear or pain or even Jon’s secondhand fear and pain, though it feels as if he should. Instead, he holds Jon close as they both grieve the loss of the life they should have had.

* * *

Eventually, they’re both too exhausted to go on. Martin makes as if to return to his lookout post, but Jon stops him with a hand on his sternum.

“Let me?” asks Jon. His voice is wrecked all over again.

“Shouldn’t you try to rest?” asks Martin. He desperately wants to curl up and go to sleep—he’s exhausted, and it’s freezing, and the blankets are _right there—_ but Jon’s had an even harder day than he has.

“Like I said, I’m not really sure I _can_ sleep, now,” says Jon in a small voice. He hesitates, then continues, “Honestly, I think it might help me to have something to focus on. Someplace to watch. Though there might be some... side effects.”

Just in the short time that Jon is speaking, Martin begins to drift off. He comes back to himself with a jolt. But what Jon’s saying is making sense, and Martin really is exhausted. He no longer has the strength to protest. Jon moves over a little as Martin settles himself under the blankets. The ground is hard and bumpy—Daisy’s air mattress was too big to take with them—but at least it’s warm, with Jon’s body heat suffusing the little nest.

Jon doesn’t get up to look outside; he just wriggles into a sitting position, leaning against Martin’s side. A strange prickling sensation runs down Martin’s spine—the feeling of being watched, so strong it’s nearly a physical presence—and a diffuse, yellowish glow begins to radiate from beside him. After a moment, however, the prickly feeling diminishes, though it doesn’t vanish, and Martin drifts away into sleep.

* * *

Jon catches his thoughts wandering again, poking through corners of the world he’s never seen nor even heard of, an alien hunger for terror yawning behind his eyes. He forces his attention back to the space around his and Martin’s tiny campsite. He can see every inch of ground, every flicker of movement, all at once. It should be too much for his single human mind to process, but he has no difficulty monitoring the entire space.

He deliberately does not Look inside the tent, even though not watching Martin—and his own physical body—feels sickening and wrong. But he doubts Martin would be able to sleep under the full force of his gaze, and Jon doesn’t need any supernatural senses to know that Martin desperately needs the rest. Even if he’s not using his unearthly sight, though, Jon can still see through his physical eyes, and so he can watch in this small way as Martin’s breath slows, easing deeper into sleep.

Unable to resist the temptation, he peeks in at Basira, all the way in London. She’s scribbling furiously on a piece of paper, eyes bright and unblinking. Jon can sense her intense focus, a feeling that’s both frustration and a kind of joy as she works something out. He doesn’t look closer, not wanting to pry. He does hope she’s in control, though.

(Martin, still sleeping, shifts and clumsily scratches at his cheek.)

Jon’s mind strays to Daisy next. He couldn’t See her before—partially because he’d been afraid to try—but now the vision comes easily. He sees a creature, easily twice Daisy’s previous height. Its— _her—_ form is indistinct, somehow combining elements of a dozen predatory animals without ever truly resembling any one of them. She looks fast, though, and strong. Vicious, as she uses something that’s neither a wolf’s fangs nor a raptor’s beak to rip a hole through the middle of the thing that killed Sasha. Jon watches in horrified fascination as Daisy tears the vaguely-humanoid figure to shreds, howling with delighted fury as it reforms around her claws. She backs off, lets it run the length of a few darkened street blocks before pouncing in a single great leap to knock it back into the ground.

It becomes clear that she’s not going to stop anytime soon, and the sight isn’t exactly pleasant. Jon pries his attention away. It takes a great deal of effort; the fear rises thick from her surroundings, and paying attention to anything else feels like leaving a feast abandoned on a table.

He forbids himself from looking in on Georgie or Melanie. He’s not sure whether it’s because he doesn’t want to involve them further in the mess he’s made, or whether he’s afraid of what he will find: what has happened to them in this new world, what they think of him now.

(Martin’s eyes start moving behind his lids as he starts to dream. His breaths wisp out in visible clouds. Not a good sign, but it is cold enough for that to happen naturally. Jon will just have to stay vigilant.)

Deliberately not looking at people he’s curious about is like trying not to think of an elephant. Jon casts about for something to distract himself, and settles on planning a route for the next day.

The Fears’ influence has spread across and through the world like dye through fabric, dramatically changing it even as the structure remains familiar. Jon can see the borders and the danger zones, the currents and the eddies in this new reality. The blind turn half a day’s walk to the southwest, where the scars of too many car crashes have left the very ground bleeding. The hill, half an hour behind them, where the horizon reaches down to pluck unwary travelers seeking high ground. The grove of tall, dense trees, seemingly offering protection from the ever-vigilant sky, with thousands of spiderwebs hidden in their crowns.

Most of these places could hurt Jon if he tried to traverse them, but he doubts any of them could actually kill him, or even keep him in one place for too long. The Eye is too hungry for his experiences to let him go. But many of them could kill Martin, or trap him until he starves or suffocates or finally succumbs to the Lonely in order to escape. These are completely unacceptable outcomes, so Jon memorizes a path along the edges of the shadows of the Fears.

(Martin’s breathing becomes slower and deeper. Could be a good sign, or it could be a bad one. Jon will have to wait and see. Or Look properly, but that would wake Martin. Unacceptable.)

At last, Jon has a plan he thinks is stable. The borders between the stains on reality are constantly fluctuating, but for now at least, they’re not actually moving that far. Even better, the route he has planned will lead them through a medium-sized town, large and lucky enough to still have a sizable population and stocked shops. He and Martin are in need of additional food, and while there are a few isolated houses vaguely in their way, they’re all inhabited by panicked, mistrustful people. Or worse, by monsters.

Or, worst of all, by corpses.

Jon knows—Knows—that already, many people are raiding the abandoned homes of neighbor and stranger alike for supplies. Taking food from an empty house wouldn’t hurt anyone—it’s not like the dead need it. But he knows that Martin would never be able to stomach it, and he doesn’t think he could either, not unless he had no other choice. It just feels so... _selfish._ So _heartless._ Despicable in a horribly mundane way.

(Martin’s shoulder has stopped radiating heat. Bad sign. Very bad sign.)

Jon continues to watch the outside world, but he immediately returns his conscious thoughts to the inside of the tent, where Martin has gone cold and still, the color slowly leaching out of his skin and hair. Jon shakes his shoulder, gently at first, then desperately. “Martin? Martin, please wake up!”

No response.

Jon realizes what he’s doing a second before he does it. There’s a moment when he teeters on the precipice, unsure if what he’s about to do is a good idea. If he does it, and he doesn’t need to, it means hurting Martin. But if he doesn’t do it, and he does need to, then it means losing Martin.

It’s barely a choice, once he realizes that. Just an acknowledgement that in another life, this moment could have gone differently. There’s no actual _decision_ involved.

Jon fixes his eyes on Martin, and allows himself to want to know what Martin is dreaming of.

And then, he’s on a beach. And Martin is there. And he’s crying.

Relief hits Jon like a tidal wave. Martin’s hurting, and that’s nothing to celebrate, but at least he’s not... empty. Like he was the first time they were both here.

After a minute or two, Martin seems to sense Jon’s presence. His sobs choke off and he staggers to his feet. “Is—Is someone there?” He walks toward Jon, but passes right by him without stopping. “Please... please, if you’re there... Where are you— _please—”_

Jon turns to face Martin. He can’t speak, and he very much doubts he’ll be able to actually do anything aside from stand and watch, but maybe, if he’s looking, Martin will be able to look back.

Martin’s walking through the mist, hands out in front of him, searching. At first, he can’t seem to see through the fog that wreathes him. But as Jon gazes at him, passive and mute, his eyes gradually drift over to the right patch of air, and then focus.

“Jon?” His voice trembles, threatening to break. Jon wants nothing in the world more than to comfort him, but it’s all he can do to take a half dozen steps forward. He can’t even reach out his hand.

“Jon, can you, can you hear—” Martin reaches out to Jon, but something strange happens in the space between them. Jon could have sworn they were standing nearly chest-to-chest, but Martin’s fully outstretched hand misses Jon by a centimeter. Martin takes a step forward and reaches again, but this time, he misses by half a meter, even as Jon stands still, aching to touch him. “Is—is that really you, or is it—” He misses again, this time by a meter and a half. “No! No, please don’t go, please, please please, I can’t—I _can’t—”_

Jon focuses every scrap of attention on Martin’s dream. The Archivist disappears from a thousand other nightmares, until the only apparition left is this one here. Martin cowers, covering his face, but he doesn’t try to flee. Instead, he gasps and falls to his knees, weak with relief.

A few times over the course of the night, Jon tries to back off and lessen the force of his gaze. But every single time, the fog begins to swirl back almost immediately, and Martin makes a sound like a wounded animal at the first brush of damp air. They end up sitting across from each other on the bare ground, Jon helpless to do anything but stare, Martin hiding his face behind hands that tremble.

When the sky is light again, Martin wakes. The first thing he does is yank Jon into his lap and clutch at him. His grip is rougher than usual, though he’s still careful, still holding back. (Not for the first time, Jon is abruptly reminded of just how _big_ Martin is, how much strength he conceals behind his ill-fitting jumpers and meek demeanor.) Jon can feel the thudding of Martin’s heartbeat against his own chest, even through all their layers of clothes.

Eventually, Martin pulls back. Shyly, giving Jon plenty of time to pull away, he lightly kisses Jon’s lips.

“Thank you,” he says softly.

Jon had a lot of time to think while Martin was dreaming. He had guessed that this conversation was likely to happen, and had thought about what he wanted— _needed—_ to say. Rather than protesting that Martin shouldn’t thank him, Jon says, “It was better than a normal nightmare, then. Or... less bad, I should say.”

“What—? Yes, Jon, of course it was better!” Martin seems baffled at the observation.

“I think... I think I was, well, _feeding_ on your fear,” says Jon. His hands twist together involuntarily in his lap. “Does that, er—I’d like to know if it makes a difference to how you think about it. One way or the other.”

Martin stares at him blankly. “I... guess it makes sense that... _that_ would happen. I... I don’t think it makes much of a difference to me? I mean, yes, I suppose it was unpleasant, and it’s sort of weird to think about? But I’m not, not _offended_ by the idea or anything, if that’s what you’re asking.” He frowns, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Hang on. You seem… very calm about this.”

“When I realized you were dreaming about the Lonely again,” says Jon carefully, “just having a nightmare, I mean, not actually going back to it—I tried to leave. But when I did, you seemed to be able to tell I was going, and you... well, you didn’t like it. So I thought, even if it wasn’t exactly pleasant to experience your fear secondhand—” Jon swallows hard at the memory, refusing to let his voice quiver. “—that it was probably an improvement, at least from your perspective.”

“It was,” says Martin immediately. “But Jon, if you don’t—”

Jon hastily continues, wanting to finish before the words fade from his mind. Martin frowns, but subsides. “The last thing I want to do—the very last thing—is hurt you. But if I’ve learned anything over the past few years,” Jon can’t help a sardonic chuckle at his own words, “it’s that sometimes, there are no good choices, only bad ones and worse ones. And I want to help you, to take care of you, any way I can. So if you tell me that it’s better to have nightmares of, well, of me, then...” Jon waves his hand to indicate the obvious conclusion of that sentence.

“And you’re just... _okay_ with that?” asks Martin, staring at Jon with an incredulous expression.

“I’ll have to be, won’t I?”

“No, you _won’t,”_ says Martin fiercely. Jon looks up at him in surprise. “I—I’m grateful, Jon, really, I am. But you can’t just give up your own peace of mind for mine! That’s not—that’s not how this _works.”_

“Why not?” asks Jon. It’s absurd to feel petulant over Martin refusing his help, but he can’t quite help it. He did spend a long time rehearsing that speech, after all.

“Because—” Martin’s jaw snaps shut. He swallows, nostrils flaring as he breathes in and out a few times. “Because,” he continues in a gentler tone, “I’ve done that, for... a very long time. And it’s a bad thing to do to yourself. Please, Jon. I can’t live with myself if I know you’re doing that for my sake.”

A retort bubbles up in Jon’s throat like acid, like lava. It’s only the faint, years-old memory of Georgie’s face, frustrated and hurt, that makes him stop and blunt the edges of his words. “But you’re asking me to do the same thing,” he says, insistent, but calm. “How am _I_ supposed to—I couldn’t live with _myself_ if I just, just left you in there alone when I could do _anything_ to help! No matter what, it’s going to be hard on one of us. You’ve done _so_ much for me already—I want to be the one to help you this time around!”

Martin blinks hard a few times. Jon can see the gloss of tears in his eyes as Martin reaches out to pull him into an embrace, burying his face in Jon’s hair for a moment. When he lifts his head up, he says, “Maybe we can just take turns,” the joke limp and half-hearted.

But the idea sticks in Jon’s mind. “Well... maybe we can,” he says after a few moments. Martin’s back to staring at him again. “There’s no reason why we have to decide one way or the other forev—for the foreseeable future,” he says, hearing a mulish note enter his voice. He tries to gentle his tone again. “I mean... we could _literally_ take turns. It’s not ideal, obviously, but... maybe it’s better than nothing?”

Martin ducks his head as if to hide tears, and Jon’s stomach drops into his toes. He didn’t think he had said anything too egregious—oh. Martin presses a hand to his mouth to muffle his laughter as he lifts his head back up.

“What?” Jon tries to grumble, but there’s too much relief in his voice for it to be convincing.

“No, sorry, it’s just—” Martin rubs at one eye. “I mean, it’s sort of obvious, isn’t it? Why didn’t we just think of that right away, and skip the self-sacrifice competition?”

“Us? Pass up a chance at self-sacrifice?” Jon deadpans, and Martin snorts again. “To be fair, I don’t think either of us are at our best right now,” says Jon, unable to stop a smile from tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Something tickles the edge of his awareness. Just over the horizon, a flock of sheep, freed from their pasture, are grazing. But there’s something not quite right about them. When Jon sees what they’re doing to the grass, his face twists into an involuntary grimace.

“We should probably pack up,” he says.

“Trouble?” Martin guesses, already reaching for his bag.

“Yes. I think the Stranger got into a child’s coloring book, or something.” Jon reaches for his cast-off jacket, pulling it over his shoulders with a grimace. They’re not in immediate danger, but it seems they’ll be walking in yesterday’s clothes for a while.

“Oh. Eurgh. Do I... do I want to know what happened...?”

“She’s fine, for now at least,” Jon hastens to reassure him, poking the gaping rift at the back of his mind for more details. “Very practical-minded aunt and uncle, it seems. We actually passed them yesterday—they were holed up in one of the smaller houses.”

“Good to know some people are doing all right,” says Martin. Still, the reminder of the state of the world is not a pleasant one, and they pack up the rest of the way without talking.

But before they go, Jon catches Martin by the shoulder. Martin looks at him questioningly, and the words Jon was planning to say suddenly sound like trite nonsense.

Instead of speaking, Jon reaches out and grabs Martin’s hand, squeezing tight. Despite Jon’s silence, Martin seems to understand him perfectly, and squeezes his hand right back.

They have to break apart to pick up their bags and set off, of course. But when they continue their long trek south, they do it hand in hand.

* * *

By the time they reach the town Jon had spotted, it’s late afternoon. Jon can see what’s wrong with it, of course, but Martin has no such sense, and so he stops short just as the first few buildings come into view. His hand is still in Jon’s, so Jon is forced to stop as well.

He has only to wonder why Martin isn’t walking anymore for the vision to invade his mind’s eye. He can see his own face, staring confusedly in the direction of his new vantage point, which seems to be significantly higher than his normal eye level. And behind him is—

Ah. “It’s not the Lonely, Martin,” says Jon. Watching himself talk in real time is _bizarre._ Jon does his best to ignore it. “I wouldn’t take you there without plenty of warning. If at all, honestly. This,” he waves behind him, fascinated by the interplay of his proprioception and Martin’s sight, “is a manifestation of the Dark.”

“Oh,” says Martin. A faint blush starts to climb his neck. “Sorry.” He shuffles his feet awkwardly.

“Don’t be,” Jon replies quickly, squeezing Martin’s hand. “It does look rather like fog.” He turns to look over his shoulder at the town. Through his own eyes, he can see the darkness clinging like a shadowy film to the buildings and the people, but through Martin’s, the whole place is a gray-black blot on the landscape, indistinct and forbidding.

“I probably won’t be able to see anything while I’m inside, will I?” asks Martin. Something about his tone of voice makes Jon pause. He shrugs his bag off his back and starts rummaging through it. “Jon? What are you doing?”

Jon pulls out the spare scarf he’d wedged in with the rest of his clothes and ties it around Martin’s wrist, then his own. “You probably won’t be able to trust your eyes in there, and this way, you’ll still be able to find me even if one of us needs both hands,” he says, pleased with his solution.

Martin’s face goes all soft again. “That’s a good idea. Thank you, Jon.” He pauses. “Though you’re going to need to untie it again unless you want to leave your pack here.”

Flushing, Jon does as Martin suggests. Then, taking Martin’s hand, he leads him into the waiting dark.

* * *

As Jon tugs Martin toward the outskirts of the town, the world grows dark. But it’s not the comforting blankness of closed eyes. There’s a faint glow from above, just enough to outline the silhouettes of buildings and trees and things which move strangely in the dark.

Martin realizes he’s clenching Jon’s hand too tightly and forces himself to loosen his grip. He can make out Jon’s outline beside him, but there’s something odd about it; he doesn’t seem to move quite right. More than once, Martin has to feel along the length of the scarf tying their wrists together to make sure that it’s really Jon he’s standing next to, and not somebody—or some _thing—_ else.

Jon had said that this town was doing well enough that they might be able to find some supplies without having to loot or steal, but Martin doesn’t quite believe it until they round a corner and see the first light. It’s an ordinary, indoor floor lamp, sitting out on the pavement, casting an anemic glow on it surroundings. The light doesn’t penetrate as far through the darkness as it should, but it’s there.

Jon leads Martin right up to the lamp. They have to crowd in beside it in order to stay within the light. (Not that Martin minds that, of course.) He breathes a sigh of relief at the sight of Jon’s face.

“Is this what you meant when you said the people who lived here had worked something out?” asks Martin.

Jon nods. “I could tell they were doing something, but I couldn’t quite see the details until now. There are more lights up all over town—I think they took them out of some of the shops. We should be able to follow a path of them through.”

“Does it—I mean, will it keep working? I can’t imagine that keeping the Dark’s influence out is as easy as putting up lights outside.”

Jon sighs, a quiet, forlorn sound. “I don’t think it will. Not unless they have a staggering number of lightbulbs hidden somewhere I can’t see—the ones they have are already starting to burn out, and it’s only been a day or so. Even if they did, though, I’m not sure it would be a long-term solution... I suspect that it’s going to get less effective over time.”

“Less than this?” Martin casts a doubtful glance at the dim bulb. He barely catches Jon’s nod out of the corner of his eye. “Is that just—is that just it, then? Are they, is the whole town just going to...” He can’t bring himself to say it. It suddenly feels too big, too real and awful, that the whole world could just go the way of this town, all for the greed of one man.

“Well...” Jon hesitates, wrinkling his nose slightly in the way he always does when trying to figure out how to put words to something complicated. “They figured out this much, didn’t they? The people here didn’t give up, even when the _sun_ went out. Maybe they’ll figure out something else. I don’t think it’s impossible that they could keep switching tactics until something sticks. Or just keep switching tactics, period.”

Martin opens his mouth to reply, but he’s cut off by a sudden, familiar sound: an eerily loud squeak from the hinges of a door.

A _yellow_ door.

Martin immediately tries to get between Jon and whatever’s coming through, but Jon clearly has the same idea, and they end up ineffectually bumping shoulders as a humanoid form materializes in the doorway.

“Helen,” says Jon, voice and posture guarded.

“Archivist,” says Helen, sounding pleased. “I told you that bad things were coming! Isn’t this just delightful?” She gestures broadly at the world around them. With a jolt, Martin realizes that he can actually see Helen’s door properly, as if it were well-lit. It, and the horribly familiar corridor beyond, swim out of the darkness as though a hole had been cut in it, just their size. Helen is similarly un-dimmed, though Jon is still only illuminated by the floor lamp.

“I would hardly call it delightful,” Jon replies stiffly. “What are you _doing_ here?”

“Visiting you, of course,” says Helen. She grins broadly. Uncannily. “I thought I’d pass along a warning, since I was in the area.” She tosses back her head and laughs, as though she had made a particularly funny joke. Martin stares at her mutely, as does Jon. She continues, oblivious to their lack of amusement. “Everyone in the world is so very confused and afraid right now. It’s _wonderful._ Do you know, I didn’t even know it was possible for so many people to feel so lost at once? An oversight on my part, clearly.” She laughs again, then pauses expectantly. When neither of them join her, she sighs and shakes her head. “Your sense of humor is as incomprehensible as ever. As are a lot of people’s, I’m afraid.”

“What do you mean?” asks Jon.

“Oh, Archivist. You see everything, but that doesn’t mean you understand it, do you? You really should pay better attention.” She shakes her head in mock despair, but the grin is still firmly in place. “I’m not the only one who can find you, you know. And there are plenty of people who aren’t quite as pleased with you as I am.”

A chill runs down Martin’s spine, and Jon’s hand suddenly starts cutting off the circulation to his fingers.

“Why are you telling me this?” asks Jon. Martin can hear a slight tremor in his voice that wasn’t there a minute ago, and gently rubs his thumb in a circle on the back of Jon’s hand, for all the good it will do.

“It wouldn’t do for you to get killed before you have a chance to wreak even more havoc,” says Helen. “I have a feeling you’ll be amusing me quite a bit more before this is all done. Now if you’ll excuse me, there’s an elsewhere that has my name on it. Or it would, if I had a name.” She waggles her fingers at them, and disappears through the door before either of them have a chance to speak up.

“That was…” says Martin, at a loss for words.

“That was Helen,” says Jon. He shakes his head. “We should go to the town center. It looks like there are some people there who might be able to help us.”

* * *

Following the line of dim lamps to the center of town is nerve-wracking, but not otherwise difficult. There are more lights here, and though the darkness all around is still oppressive, it’s less awful with more people. It takes a little while to reassure the inhabitants of the town that Jon doesn’t mean them any harm, strange-looking as he is now. The townspeople, while not exactly trusting, are content to part with some of their extra food supplies in exchange for information about what, precisely, is going on. (Martin isn’t sure they would’ve been _quite_ so generous if the lone supermarket’s refrigerator cases were still working, but he knows that Jon would have insisted on helping even if they’d offered nothing in exchange.)

Those present huddle in the middle of a ring of Christmas tree lights as Jon tries to succinctly explain the Fears. Martin suspects that most of them would have loudly discounted every word out of Jon’s mouth not two days before. Now, they mostly just look exhausted, and grateful to have any explanation. Even a nigh-unbelievable one.

When one of the townspeople, a tall woman with sharp eyes, asks if either of them knows how to help someone who’s been acting strange since it all _went a bit wrong,_ Jon offers to see what he can do. “But only if I can do it while Martin packs up the food,” he says. “We have to stay in each other’s sight.”

The locals seem to take this in stride. While one of them helps Martin figure out how to stuff his duffel bag even tighter, Jon speaks to the woman’s husband, who won’t stop humming a tune that makes Martin feel antsy and cross. When the man abruptly stops humming and starts sobbing, Martin glances over, alarmed. The man, arms shaking, is holding onto his wife, who’s thanking Jon. Jon is swaying on his feet, but looks pleased with himself. Everyone else doesn’t seem to know whether to be impressed or afraid.

The woman leads Jon to the window of one of the nearby shops. They both look in for a moment, and then she unlocks the door, fetches something from inside, and presses it into his hand. He stares down at it for a long minute before shoving it into one pocket and trotting over to help Martin. He doesn’t bring it up, so Martin doesn’t either.

“What exactly did you do?” asks Martin, as they walk out of town. “To that woman's husband, I mean.” By mutual agreement, they’d decided to camp outside of the blot of darkness, as Jon’s awareness seems to be dampened inside it, if not altogether gone.

“I asked him what he was doing,” says Jon. “He heard what he was saying and then snapped out of it.”

“Like what you did with me?”

“A bit?” answers Jon. “Though it was much less involved than that. You were further gone, I think, and the abilities I have now are stronger than what I could do then. And... well, obviously I wanted to help him, but I was a bit less, ah, emotionally invested in the outcome, you could say.”

Martin can’t help a little laugh. “Just a bit?”

Jon gently shoves him with one shoulder in lieu of a reply.

* * *

Jon reluctantly promises to only visit Martin’s nightmares once every hour that night. While he holds Martin’s still, chilly form, waiting until he’s allowed to blast the fog away again, one hand sneaks into the pocket of his trousers to the small box that the jeweler had foisted upon him. She had insisted that the contents of her shop were doing her no good with the world the way it was, and besides, “I have a feeling you may need a ring sometime soon,” she’d said, with a pointed glance toward Martin. Jon hadn’t bothered to argue further, especially not once he’d caught the perfect sunshine gleam of the silver and yellow sapphire ring in the corner of the window, warm and bright even in the darkness. Incredibly, the band was even the right size; he’d known as soon as he’d laid eyes on it.

That woman probably had a bit of the Beholding to her, in retrospect. Maybe not enough to be consciously aware of, but enough to know immediately when Jon had spotted what he wanted. She’d pressed the ring box into his hand before he’d even fully decided to accept.

Jon’s never been exactly good at impulse control, and he’s only gotten worse the last few years. Still, this deserves some careful consideration. He and Martin had talked about a lot of things before it had all gone to hell, and Jon remembers the wistful look Martin had gotten any time either of them had mentioned weddings or marriage, even tangentially. Still, feelings change, especially in times of stress. He can’t just assume that Martin still wants the same things as before. Who would think of marriage at a time like this?

Martin would. Martin _absolutely_ would. Jon even has a sneaking suspicion that getting married in the face of an apocalypse is more or less exactly the sort of thing Martin would find romantic.

God, he’s such a sap. Jon reaches out and brushes a hand against Martin’s cool, pale cheek. Seven minutes exactly until he’s allowed to visit again.

Jon counts down the seconds until they are reunited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: Blood, implied/referenced self-harm, body horror (too many eyeballs, Hunt!Daisy fighting Not!Sasha)
> 
> Tell me your favorite line, if you like :)


	3. Immunity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Melanie has a fright, Georgie doesn’t, and spooky bullshit abounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [NevillesGran](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NevillesGran) for beta reading this chapter!
> 
> Content warnings in the end notes.

As ridiculous as it might sound, Georgie literally does not notice when the world ends.

She’s curled up on the sofa, nose in a book, because it’s Thursday, and she’s finished editing this week’s episode of her podcast, and she hasn’t properly sat down and read a book in months, and what’s the _point_ of setting your own hours if you don’t get to enjoy it a little? So the first warning signs completely pass her by.

When the Admiral whines, hops off her lap, and scurries off in the direction of the bedroom, she assumes he wants to go bother Melanie. When several people start yelling loudly from outside, well, that’s living in a big city for you. When the light across the pages of her book suddenly becomes brighter and more intense, she assumes a cloud has passed out from in front of the sun.

It isn’t until Melanie screams that she realizes that something is _wrong._

“Melanie?” Georgie tosses the book aside and hurries into the cozy bedroom of her flat.

Melanie is stumbling towards the threshold, hands groping in front of her for the door. There are tears streaming down her face. “Georgie? Georgie, please, I can’t, I can’t—it’s _looking at me,_ please, I don’t know what to _do—”_

“I’ve got you,” says Georgie, catching Melanie in her arms. Melanie is shaking as though she might fall apart, so violently that her teeth are rattling. It’s clear that she can’t stand on her own, so Georgie carefully maneuvers her back to the bed, murmuring helpless reassurances the whole way, and sits down next to her. Melanie tries to pull the blankets over herself with trembling hands, but gives up partway through and just grabs onto Georgie again.

It takes a long time—at least an hour—before Melanie is composed enough to speak again. During that time, the sounds from outside have grown stranger: more screams, but also deep rumbling sounds, the cries of predatory animals, and occasionally a strange, hypnotic melody. Once or twice, at the sound of the music, Melanie had gone pale—well, paler—and clapped her hands over both ears.

When Melanie finally uncovers her ears again, the sobs have eased. At some point, the Admiral had crawled under the bed, and they can hear him still making that low whining noise. Georgie’s heart aches for both of them.

Melanie tries to speak, but her voice is so hoarse from crying that she literally can’t get the words out. Instead, she bursts into a coughing fit, back heaving. Georgie brushes a hand against her shoulder, waiting for Melanie to lean into the touch before gently rubbing in circles between her shoulder blades. She stills her hand once Melanie’s breathing steadies out.

“Glass of water?” asks Georgie, keeping her voice soft.

Melanie nods, but when Georgie makes a move to leave, Melanie grabs onto her hand so hard the bones ache.

“All right, then,” says Georgie, and carefully leads Melanie to the kitchen.

Melanie downs two glasses of water one right after the other, and her voice is still scratchy when she says, “Thank you.” Her grip on Georgie’s hand has loosened enough that it’s no longer painful, but she’s still holding on tight.

“Melanie, what’s going on?” asks Georgie. Her voice sounds oddly distant in her ears, too calm by far for the situation. It’s times like these that she’s most acutely aware of her own lack of fear. Melanie is terrified, the Admiral is terrified; judging by the sounds from outside, the whole of London is terrified. But Georgie doesn’t have the first clue what’s causing it.

Melanie turns her face upwards sharply. “What’s going—? You can’t— _feel_ it?”

“No, I have no idea. _Please_ tell me what’s happening.” Georgie tries to put as much warmth as she can in her voice to make up for the lack of the frantic energy that Melanie is buzzing with.

“There’s something _watching_ me,” says Melanie, and despair sinks in Georgie’s stomach like a stone. “And I think—I think it’s watching everyone else, too. And, and I keep hearing this _music—”_ She takes a shuddering breath. “You really can’t feel it?”

“No,” says Georgie. “I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?” Internally, she cringes at how trite the question sounds.

“Just—” Melanie swallows. “Can we try to figure out what's happened? I mean—I can _feel_ it, but I don't know what's causing it. Maybe there’s something on the news?”

“Of course,” says Georgie. She should have thought of that earlier—but no, that would have meant taking her attention off of Melanie. “Let me check my phone.” She heads over to the living room, where her phone lies discarded on the table by the sofa, and picks it up. No notifications. For that matter—

“No signal,” she says. “No internet, either.” She looks over at Melanie, who has drawn in on herself at this news. “Probably not a good sign.”

“Probably,” says Melanie faintly, coming to stand near Georgie again.

Someone in the street outside screams, and Melanie flinches, fumbling for Georgie’s hand. “I’m going to go see what that was,” says Georgie. Melanie’s grip tightens. “Just to the porch to look, until I know what’s going on,” she adds quickly. “Come with me?”

Georgie leads Melanie by the hand out the front door of the flat. Her downstairs neighbor and landlady, Jasmine, is standing at the railing of their tall shared porch, staring upwards, transfixed. When Georgie sees what’s going on outside, she freezes in place as well; not out of fear, of course, but out of sheer shock.

“Georgie? What is it?” Melanie’s voice brings her back to reality.

“It’s all foggy out,” says Georgie. “The densest fog I’ve ever seen—I can barely even see the ground from here. And...” She squints up at the sky through the fog. That can’t _possibly_ be right...

“And?”

“The sky has turned into an _eyeball.”_

* * *

It’s obviously connected to the Institute. This is exactly the sort of spooky bullshit they deal with all the time, only times about a thousand. Melanie agrees with her, which is why Georgie is surprised that when she starts planning a trek there to demand what’s going on, Melanie puts up a fight.

“We need to know what’s going on,” says Georgie again. Melanie and a half-packed bag sit beside her on the bed.

“We can _wait,”_ says Melanie. “The phone service will come back eventually and then we’ll be able to figure it out from here. You don’t have to go gallivanting halfway across London on a hunch!”

“There’s an _eyeball_ in place of the _sun,_ and you said yourself that a bunch of the stuff we’ve been hearing are probably signs of these—what do you call them? Fears?—which means that we don’t have any guarantees that things are going back to normal anytime soon!”

“Monsters prowling the streets of London is even _more_ reason to stay indoors where it’s safe!”

“These things operate on fear, right? So I’ll be fine, and you—”

“Not being _afraid_ isn’t going to stop a regular person with a _knife!”_ cries Melanie.

Georgie freezes. That is... actually a fairly sound reason not to go looking for trouble, actually. Why hadn’t it occurred to her?

“Georgie?”

She snaps back to reality. “I... I didn’t think of that,” she says, feeling extremely foolish.

Melanie’s shoulders slump with relief. “Then will you _please_ give this up? Let’s just wait it out.”

Georgie considers the problem, trying to approach it logically, as her gut instinct has proved itself untrustworthy. Unfortunately, she keeps coming up with the same answer. “I still think it’s worth considering a trip to the Institute.”

“Georgie—”

“No, please listen. I know it’s dangerous. More dangerous than I think I’m literally capable of comprehending, though to be fair that’s a low bar.” Despite the tension in the air, the corners of Melanie’s lips quirk upwards. “But I really believe it’ll be all right. I can be careful, if I’m paying attention, and I think the fact that I’m not experiencing whatever it is that’s got you and the Admiral in such a state is a good sign.” Melanie’s hands clench, and she bites her lip. “And, honestly, I don’t think we’re all that much safer in here than out there,” Georgie continues. “You can feel the eyeball looking at you through the walls, right? And if we’d be in danger in the street from somebody with a knife, then we’re already in danger here from somebody with an axe. At least this way we can get some answers, maybe even find some way to protect ourselves.”

Melanie’s shoulders slump again, but in defeat this time. Then she scowls and says, a defiant note in her voice, “All right. But I’m coming with you.”

“What?”

The scowl deepens. “I’m not _helpless,_ you know. I’ve been dealing with this stuff pretty much nonstop for more than a year—god, it’s been almost _two_ years, that’s freaky—and I probably have more practical knowledge than you do, and even if I can’t see anymore, it doesn’t mean I’m a total invalid—”

“No—no, Melanie, of course I don’t think that—” Georgie hastens to say.

Melanie keeps going. “And you can’t pull any, _it’s too dangerous for you but not for me_ bullshit, that’s not what I signed up for and it’s _stupid_ anyway—”

“Melanie! I was assuming you would come with me when I first said we should go!” Georgie finally manages to interject.

There’s a brief pause. “Oh,” says Melanie. Then, “Really? I assumed you would think I was, you know. A liability, at the very least.”

Georgie cautiously takes Melanie’s hand in hers. “You said it yourself. You know a lot more about this stuff than I do. And besides, the fact that you _are_ affected by—whatever this is—that’s probably a reason to stick together more than anything else, right? Safety in numbers, and all that.”

“Right,” says Melanie. A pause. “S-sorry. I shouldn’t have—jumped to conclusions—”

“Don’t be sorry,” says Georgie. _“I’m_ sorry. I should’ve made it clearer that I wanted you with me.”

Melanie isn’t a very mushy person, but Georgie has gotten better at reading her over the time they’ve been living together, so she knows what it means when Melanie slumps over and leans against her side. Learning how to fit their rough edges together has been a process and a half, but it’s worth it for little moments like these.

“Love you too,” Georgie says quietly. “We’ll get through this. I promise.”

* * *

It takes them several more hours to come up with a workable plan, and by the time they’re done, the sky has darkened to something approaching nighttime. They debate back and forth for a while before deciding on a test run of their excursion; they’ll venture a few blocks from the house before heading back.

Before setting out, they knock on Jasmine’s front door, the Admiral in tow. Neither of them are keen to leave him by himself in the flat with the fog still swirling outside, and Jasmine lives alone aside from a fishtank; hopefully the company will benefit both of them.

The presence of the fog (and the bone-deep hollow ache Melanie describes) is almost encouraging, in an ironic sort of way. None of the Fears are exactly _safe_ , but the Lonely at least seems straightforward to deal with: stay in arm’s reach of each other, check in regularly, and be suspicious of anything—including their own ideas—that threaten to split them up. Before leaving the porch, they tether themselves together with a length of rope from the camping gear Melanie used to use for overnight shoots, and make a solemn oath that, no matter what happens, they will return home before untying it.

Though they’ve made a variety of contingency plans, and talked over how best to deal with all the manifestations and monsters that Melanie can remember from the statements in the archives, they still don’t have a better plan for a stranger with a knife than “run.” Therefore, they proceed slowly, steering clear of movement and ducking into corners and alleys at any sign of human life at street level. There are clearly people holed up in the buildings around them, but it seems the fog is doing them a favor, in a way; there is a suspicious lack of both other explorers and looters.

Hand in hand, Georgie murmuring quiet warnings to Melanie at each curb, they make it four blocks from the flat with no trouble. It’s there that the fog abruptly breaks, revealing a tree-lined avenue absolutely choked with fuzzy multicolored mold, centering on the ruins of a small clinic. A miasma of spores hang in the air, drifting aimlessly. Georgie has to jerk Melanie to a stop to prevent her from stepping beyond the border between the two spaces.

“Sorry,” whispers Georgie as Melanie scowls and rubs her arm. “Some kind of mold all over everything up ahead—only just saw it in time through the fog. I think it’s the Plague, or the Disease, or whatever you called the really gross-sounding one.”

“The Corruption,” Melanie whispers back. “And yeah, if there’s weird mold, that sounds about right. How bad is it?”

“Very, very nasty. I think—oh. Ugh. There are some, ah, people—well, bodies—kind of in the middle of the road?”

“Gross. Do you want to try burning some of it off?”

“Worth a shot,” murmurs Georgie, hunting through a bulging pocket in search of the matches she’d stowed there earlier. “Get ready to run, though.”

“Back the way we came, I assume?”

“Yep.” It takes five matches before Georgie can get one to light, damp as the air is. The flame is tiny in the gloom, just a faint blue corona above the match head.

That changes very quickly when she pokes the tip past the end of the fog and into the rot-infested air beyond. The match turns into a fireball, spewing foul-smelling smoke all around. Georgie drops it instantly, flinching back from the heat, though not willing to run just yet. When the fireball lands on the ground, the carpet of rot catches as well.

“Shit,” she hisses.

“Run?” asks Melanie.

“Not yet, but back up,” Georgie gasps, leading Melanie by the hand as she stumbles back from the burning ground. She and Melanie both gag helplessly on the stench. Luckily—or perhaps unluckily—the fire peters out after burning a rough semicircle on the edge of the corrupted area. Georgie watches, fascinated, as the fog creeps out to fill the space above the scorched ground.

“What’s going on? What happened?” asks Melanie.

“It went up really fast,” says Georgie, crouching to get a better look at the burned mold. “But the fire didn’t go very far. It’s like—oh, that’s _bizarre._ The mold actually pulled back to make a little fire break. I didn’t even see it move, but then, I wasn’t looking very closely.”

“Ugh,” mutters Melanie with a shudder and a grimace of disgust. Georgie silently concurs.

“Looks like we have a way of dealing with the—Corruption?—without carrying a fire extinguisher, at least,” says Georgie.

“We should still probably carry one, though,” says Melanie. “Just in case.”

“Just in case,” Georgie echoes in agreement.

* * *

Neither Georgie nor Melanie are keen to either wade or burn a path through the mold unless they need to, so they decide to head home and rest rather than explore further. For the most part, the trip back is uneventful, though every now and then Melanie will flinch at something Georgie can’t perceive; apparently the fog around them is a good but not total defense against the influence of the other Fears. They’ve had to pause twice for Georgie to rub some warmth back into Melanie’s hands, as well; it seems that Georgie’s lack of fear has effects that extend beyond the psychological.

The dense gray fog is almost peaceful. Georgie finds it’s worryingly easy to forget that it’s every bit as potentially lethal as anything else Melanie had warned her of. It also doesn’t help that for all that it’s a manifestation of a horrifying extradimensional something-or-other, it doesn’t seem capable of doing much aside from making Melanie withdrawn and clingy. Georgie is on the point of writing the whole thing off as the most boring apocalypse imaginable when she hears the first other living person they’ve encountered since heading out.

“Please! Anyone!” The voice sounds like it belongs to an older woman, but it’s hoarse enough to make it a little hard to tell. What sounds like an attempt at another plea is cut off by breathless, ragged sobs.

“Melanie,” Georgie murmurs.

“I hear her,” says Melanie, voice tight.

“You’re the one with the functional instincts. Try to help her or not?” Georgie aches all the way to her spleen at the thought of leaving someone out here in this, especially someone who sounds so desperate. But now more than ever, her own gut feelings are suspect. If Melanie says they have to go, Georgie will follow her lead even if it feels like the worst thing she’s ever done.

To Georgie’s intense relief, Melanie hesitates only a moment before saying, “We have to try. Try not to get too close too fast, though.” Raising her voice, she calls out, “Hello! We’re here—can you hear us?”

The crying continues for another half a minute or so as the two of them start following the sounds. “ _Please!_ Is anyone there?” the woman wails in the distance. She doesn’t acknowledge Melanie’s shout at all.

“We’re here!” calls Georgie. “Can you hear my voice?”

This time, the response is immediate. “Yes! Yes, I can hear you! Where are you?” The voice seems to be getting further away.

On a hunch, Georgie calls out, “We’re coming to find you, just stay where you are and keep talking!”

“All—all right,” comes the voice out of the gloom, still shaky. “Uh—what should I talk about?”

“Tell us about your family,” calls Melanie. “Maybe it’ll help her resist a little bit,” she adds in an undertone to Georgie.

“Good idea,” murmurs Georgie. She turns a corner, Melanie’s hand still in hers, hunting for the source of the sound.

“Did—did you say, did someone say something?” calls the woman. Panic begins creeping back into her voice. “Did you say—are you still there?”

“Still here!” calls Georgie. “Tell me your name!”

“Rachel! My name is Rachel,” comes the reply. Getting closer. Georgie turns her head from side to side, trying to judge which way to go next. The fog does something strange to the echoes, but if she can just listen long enough, she should be able to figure out where this woman is.

“Nice to meet you, Rachel. I’m Georgie.” If the situation weren’t so stressful, Georgie would laugh at how banal that sounds. “Why don’t you tell me about your family?”

In a voice that continues to sound like it might give way any moment, Rachel tells them about her new granddaughter—“my first,” she says, fear unable to entirely mask her pride—and how she was on her way back home after visiting her son and daughter-in-law when the fog came in. It takes a surprisingly short amount of time to reach her; she had only been two streets over when they had first heard her.

Rachel turns out to be a smallish woman with gray streaks in her curly dark brown hair. There are tear tracks on her face, and wet splotches down the front of her pink wool coat, which had probably looked much more cheerful before the fog had started leeching the color out of it. Her whole face lights up when she sees Georgie and Melanie, and she takes several running steps towards them, though stops short of actually touching when Georgie holds up her hands cautioningly.

“Hang on just a minute, please,” says Georgie, mindful of Melanie’s repeated warnings earlier that day. “Have you heard any weird music since this all happened?”

“Weird... music? No, I don’t think so,” says Rachel, puzzled.

“Run into any large spiders or nasty insects? Anything weird happen, aside from this?” She gestures around at the fog.

Rachel shakes her head, eyes wide. It occurs to Georgie that if Jon were here, they’d know for sure if she was telling the truth—but no, having Jon here would probably not be an improvement. In fact, given what he’s involved with, having him here could be much, _much_ worse—

Georgie cuts off that train of thought. The woman, Rachel, is shuffling from foot to foot, clearly freaked out by their questions in addition to the fog. “Did she nod or something?” mutters Melanie. Right.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t notice—” says the woman, seeming to get a good look at Melanie for the first time. She cuts herself off and starts again. “No, nothing strange except for this fog. Do you know what’s going on?” Her voice finally cracks on the last word, and she starts coughing hard.

Georgie, forgetting the need for caution for a moment, rushes forward to support her. Luckily, it seems she was telling the truth about not running into other weird phenomena; the only thing she does is hold on for dear life and gasp for breath.

Melanie feels her way along the tether between their belts until she can rest one hand on Georgie’s shoulder again. When Rachel finally stops coughing, Melanie holds out the other hand. “Hi. Melanie.” Rachel shakes it, seeming reluctant to let go afterwards.

“Do you have somewhere safe to go?” asks Georgie. “With other people there?”

“I live alone,” says Rachel. Her voice is even rougher than before. “My, um. My partner died last May.” She sniffles, and the fog seems to press in tighter around her.

Georgie reaches out a hand as well. “Come with us, then. At least until you can get in touch with your family.”

* * *

When Georgie and Melanie arrive back at the house, Rachel in tow, Georgie finds that the evening’s work is not yet over. She can hear people in the neighboring houses calling out for someone, anyone, to answer. Even more eerily, there are several people wandering the street crying for help, apparently unable to see or hear each other. Neither Melanie nor Rachel seem to notice anything out of the ordinary until Georgie explicitly points them out.

Georgie is tired and would really like to sleep so that she can be ready for the much longer excursion in store for tomorrow. Unfortunately, she also seems to be the only person around with the power to actually help any of these people.

She groans, massages the back of her neck, and gets to work.

* * *

Georgie wakes late the next morning with a headache.

Knocking on every single door within a three-block radius of her house until someone had come to answer had taken hours, even if basically everyone had sprinted to the door the instant they heard another person. It’s incredible how many people live within a minute’s walk of her house, and how few of them she actually knows.

By the time she’d finally finished with the last row of houses, she’d had her explanation speech down pat, and had been well on her way to losing her voice. Melanie had offered her a cup of herbal tea, but she can’t remember drinking it. What...?

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” comes Melanie’s voice, warm and teasing, as though the previous day hadn’t happened. Unfortunately for Georgie’s half-baked hopes, however, she immediately follows it up with, “Too good for my herbal tea, then, are you?”

Despite herself, Georgie groans out a laugh. Unfortunately, she’s still very dehydrated. When she finally wrestles her gummed-up eyelids open, Melanie is propped up against the pillows beside her, smirking, holding out a water bottle.

After downing half of it, Georgie finally trusts her voice again. “More like too tired.” She sighs. “So that all really happened, then?”

“Yep. Unfortunately.” The Admiral, reclaimed the previous night from Jasmine’s flat, hops up onto the bed and settles himself down beside Melanie. She looks sad and tired, with a tight jaw and tighter shoulders.

Georgie worms her way into Melanie’s lap and holds her close for a minute, trying to store up the feeling against the hard days she knows are ahead. From the way Melanie leans down and kisses her forehead, gentle and lingering and not her usual style, she’s sure that their thoughts are on the same page.

But the real world—the _new_ real world—creeps into their warm little sanctuary, as it tends to do. Georgie can’t get her mind off of the way Rachel was crying the previous night. Even if _she’s_ more or less safe, staying with Jasmine (whom she knows from a knitting circle, apparently—small world), there must be dozens of others like her, still lost in the fog, just in this one bit of London. And they haven’t made it to the Institute yet; besides the immediate, they still don’t know what’s going _on._

Georgie inhales one last breath through the fabric of Melanie’s flannel shirt, making her shiver, before sitting up. “All right,” she says, surprised by the conviction in her own voice. “Let’s figure out what we’re going to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: filth/decay
> 
> Want to make my day? Tell me what part of this chapter was your favorite!


	4. The Long Road South

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jon uses his powers for good, a familiar Joe Spooky uses his powers for evil, and Martin uses his powers as a last resort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [NevillesGran](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NevillesGran) for beta reading this chapter!
> 
> Content warnings in the end notes. (This one’s a bit emotionally intense, folks.)

If someone had asked Martin, back on the first day of the end of the world, whether he thought he’d be able to get used to the constant terror—the way reality had begun to slip and slide from his thoughts and senses—he would have said no. Of _course_ not.

He would also have been wrong. And really, looking back, he should have known. After all, if someone had asked him, back when Jane Prentiss had trapped him in his flat nearly three years ago, whether he could get used to constant, soul-grinding fear and grief, he would also have said no, and he would also have been wrong.

After a week and a half of travel, Martin is used to the apocalypse. He’s grown accustomed to sleeping rough, to eating cold, indifferent food by the light of a torch, to having awful nightmares. (To Jon appearing in his nightmares, warped and terrifying and yet _trustworthy,_ so much better than no company at all.)

It’s a bit shocking how fast he gets used to it, actually. Sure, there are horrifying fear monsters stalking the landscape, and every half an hour he and Jon have to detour around some haunted building or possessed tree or something equally ridiculous and lethal, but there’s just so _much_ that it rapidly becomes the new normal.

And it’s a _bad_ new normal. It’s _unrelentingly_ bad. Of course it is. Except...

Except that sprinkled in amongst the ocean of awful, there are tiny little drops of joy. The villages and towns full of people they’re able to help, just by letting them know they’re not alone in this new world. The fellow travelers Jon is able to steer away from danger. Jon’s presence at his side, steady and constant, a physical reminder of his promise to stay.

It’s not enough to make up for all that’s gone wrong, of course; these moments are firmly in “silver lining” territory. Often, they feel almost gauche, as though being happy at something so intrinsically connected to the end of the world is in poor taste. But then again, positive human connection is the only thing that’s ever seemed to make a difference in the face of the Fears, so Martin savors his brief happinesses when he finds them, and tries not to feel too guilty.

* * *

It turns out that Martin doesn’t need to punish himself for his scraps of stolen joy. The world does that enough on its own.

Every now and then, when he dwells on how long it’s been since the slow, quiet, beautiful weeks before the apocalypse—the widening gulf between _then_ and _now_ —his thoughts start to go a bit fuzzy. The whole thing feels like a dream, more like a might-have-happened than an actually-did-happen. It doesn’t help to remember how _fragile,_ how terrifyingly, gloriously uncertain that time had felt—as though the future had come unmoored, drifting out to sea, salvation and ruin both just over the horizon.

Sometimes, he’ll catch himself thinking that the monotony of terror his life has become is simpler than grappling with that uncertainty. Easier. _Better._

He usually snaps out of it fairly quickly. But one dreary, draining, Desolate morning almost two weeks in, he’s too tired to notice the warning signs, and the fog creeps in.

It’s so _easy._ Such a relief, to drift down into that cool, gentle place inside of himself where nothing can touch him. It isn’t until Jon abruptly turns towards him, bright eyes wide and searching, that Martin realizes that something isn’t right.

“Martin? Martin, where are you?” Jon looks frantic. He’s not supposed to be frantic. Martin doesn’t like it when Jon is upset.

Why not?

The thought puzzles him. There’s a nagging feeling, like he’s forgotten something important. Why doesn’t he like it when Jon is upset?

“Martin, please come back, come back—”

Is it because Jon doesn’t work well when he’s in a state? No, Jon is the one who cares about Martin’s quality of work. Cared. Jon _used_ to care about that. He hasn’t in a while. He cares about something else now, doesn’t he?

“—come back, _please_ Martin, I’m sorry—”

Martin forces his foggy brain to focus. He’s forgotten something important, he’s sure of it now. Jon cares about...

“Martin, l— _please come back—_ I need you, please—”

Jon cares about _him._ And that’s important because—Oh.

Two things happen at once. The first is that Jon opens every single one of the approximately one hundred eyes he’s been trying to keep closed and hidden ever since they started sprouting in the wake of the emergence. The second is that the wall holding Martin’s thoughts apart from his feelings abruptly shatters, and he wakes as if from a nightmare back to the real world.

There is a burning not-heat on his skin from the sickly radiance emanating from Jon’s eyes, and an aching not-cold in his lungs where something that isn’t quite fog roils, having failed to consume him. The two sensations clash painfully as Martin falls to his knees, utterly unable to control his movements.

Martin gasps and retches, and something gray and incorporeal surges up and out of him, leaving a stinging pain behind. The burning feeling on his skin dissipates almost immediately after, leaving only the press of Jon’s worn-out old shirt against his face and the feeling of Jon’s fingers wound a little too tight through his hair.

Martin should stand up, and they should both keep going. It’s viciously hot, the ground is dusty and scorched, and the red glow on the horizon is only growing brighter. But he lets himself luxuriate in the moment of closeness for a little while longer. Maybe it would be simpler if he didn’t miss the little home he’d made with Jon for such a brief but happy time. But he does miss it, and if he can’t have it anymore, then he can at least have this.

After a moment or two, Jon says quietly, “I’m sorry.”

Martin looks up at him. _I will not roll my eyes,_ he thinks determinedly. “What are you sorry for?” he asks as he stands back up.

“I should have noticed something was wrong sooner. You were being so quiet, but I thought, maybe you just didn’t want to talk, so I didn’t bother you about it. And, um. I probably should have tried the, ah, eye thing sooner.” Jon shuffles his feet, looking down.

“Hey,” says Martin as gently as he can. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

“But—”

“Jon. You have _nothing_ to apologize for.”

“I could’ve—”

Martin takes Jon’s hand and pulls him along as he starts walking again. “You could have noticed I was in a strange mood earlier? Sure,” says Martin. Jon’s face falls a little. “But,” he continues, “It’s not as if me being quiet is a sign of impending doom. I’ve been plenty quiet before now, and this is the first time that, well, _this_ has happened.”

“I should’ve seen what was going on,” says Jon, stubborn as always. “I can see _everything,_ I should’ve noticed that something was wrong—”

Martin turns and takes Jon’s face between his hands. Seven eyes of various sizes fix on him instantly, and he has to force himself not to hurriedly look away, despite the itchy discomfort of being stared at, perceived, _beheld._ “You never have to justify _not_ using your abilities,” he says. “Not to me, not ever. I know that you can’t entirely stop using them anymore, but I will _never_ be upset at you for choosing not to, ah, _Look_ at something.”

Jon stares at him. It’s not entirely pleasant. “But I—but I _have_ to be able to see where we’re going. You’re saying I should just— _not_ try to avoid danger? Martin, you could—you could _die—”_

“That’s not what I’m saying.” Martin has to close his eyes in order to find the right words. “I’m _not_ saying that you should never use your—your Sight. I’m saying that if you don’t want to use it, or want to use it less, for any reason, you don’t have to explain or apologize. Regardless of whether it makes things harder on us.”

Jon splutters, the force of his gaze still on Martin’s face like a physical weight. “You don’t care if you get hurt because I wasn’t doing a good enough job of, of protecting you.”

Martin sighs and blindly reaches out, wrapping an arm around Jon’s skinny shoulders and pressing his cheek into Jon’s hair. “Of course I don’t want to be hurt,” he says, voice slightly muffled. “But I know that all this is wearing on you. And I don’t want you to feel as if taking care of yourself means upsetting me or making me angry.” The sensation of being watched increases for a moment, and Martin has to take a moment to shake the feeling that he’s said more than he intended to. “I just—I trust you, all right? Whatever amount of watching you feel comfortable doing, that’s the amount I want you to do. If it means we get into a few close scrapes, well, that’s worth your sanity.”

“What if I lose you?” whispers Jon.

Martin can’t help reflexively clutching at Jon at the thought of being lost. He forces his arms to relax. “Then you can find me,” he says. He lets a smile into his voice as he continues, “You have a pretty good track record already.”

Jon snorts, but nods, cheek rubbing against Martin’s shirt.

“In the meantime, I don’t want to lose _you,”_ says Martin. “So—take care of yourself. Please. For my sake, if not for yours. Whatever you have to do, just—try to stay safe.”

“I will,” says Jon.

* * *

“Oh, _no,”_ Jon groans that afternoon, apropos of nothing, sounding dismayed. Martin’s stomach clenches in reflexive terror.

(It’s the fourth or fifth time today that he’s reacted this way to something, and it will probably happen at least three more times before the day’s out. The apocalypse has destroyed Martin’s ability to react to things calmly. Hopefully he’ll at least get the ability to do a decent sit-up out of it.)

Martin takes a deep breath, holds it for a count of four, and lets it back out, then repeats the process. When his heart is no longer racing, he asks, “What’s wrong?”

It takes Jon a moment to answer; the eyes in his face are gleaming, focused on something in the distance, and from the faint glow from under his shirt, the eyes in the scars over his ribcage have opened up as well. But then he blinks and snaps back to himself, glow fading, and says, “I think we might have an unwelcome visitor in an hour or two.”

“An unwelcome visitor?” An awful suspicion curls up in Martin’s belly. “Like the sort Helen warned us about?”

Jon nods, and Martin swallows hard. “Who?”

“Jared Hopworth,” says Jon.

Martin winces, remembering with visceral horror the nightmare he’d had after listening to the recording Jon had made of Sebastian Adekoya’s statement. “Any chance we can avoid him?”

“I’ve been trying to steer us away from his path all of today,” says Jon. “He started heading north from London a couple of days ago, but I was hoping it was a coincidence—maybe he was just trying to get away from the more populated areas. He doesn’t seem to like most of the other Entities, especially the Slaughter and the Spiral. But now he’s close enough that I can tell he’s headed straight for us—the road he’s on was taking him away from us, and he’s just turned around to go back the other way.” Jon looks up at Martin, misery written across his face. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how he’s tracking us, and I don’t know how to stop him. I don’t—I don’t know what to _do.”_

Another breath, in, hold, out. “Do you know for sure that he means us harm?” asks Martin. It’s probably too much to hope for that the infamous Boneturner might decide to be their ally, but—

“He told me, before, that he never got involved with the rituals because he liked the world the way it was,” says Jon. “And he seems pretty angry. He keeps, ah... he keeps leaning out his window to curse at the sky?”

Martin glances up. The Eye stares down at him. He looks back at Jon again. “Oh,” he says. Then he shakes his head, tries to rally against the terror crawling up his spine. “What can we do? Anything nearby that could help us?”

Jon considers that, brow furrowing, eyes blinking open across his face. “There’s nobody we could get to before he catches up with us who would stand a chance against him. There’s a manifestation of the Hunt nearby, but I don’t think that’s the best place to try and escape a pursuer.” Martin hums in agreement. “Our best bet is Helen, but she’s... Ugh. She’s enjoying herself. I don’t think we’ll be able to get her attention anytime soon. There’s also—No.” Jon cuts himself off. Looking up at Martin with anguished eyes, he says, “I don’t—I don’t think there’s anywhere else we can go. We could try to outrun him for a while, but even if we found a working car before he gets to us, he’d catch us eventually. Martin, if—if this is—”

“Jon, wait. What were you going to say, a minute ago? Is there some other way out?”

Jon looks at the ground, hands clasped in front of himself. “I don’t think you’ll like it,” he says quietly.

“I’d like to not die,” says Martin. They both flinch at the acknowledgement of what Jared is probably going to do.

“If we backtrack a bit, we might be able to beat Jared to—to a bit of the Lonely,” says Jon, still looking down.

The terror crystallizes into dread as Martin realizes what he’s about to agree to.

“Then we backtrack,” says Martin, trying to sound decisive.

“But—Martin—” Jon stammers. “Are—I need to know if you’re sure.”

“I don’t think we have a choice,” says Martin quietly. “Just—stay with me?”

“Of course,” says Jon, before taking his hand and setting a grueling pace back the way they came.

* * *

They almost make it.

When Jon tells Martin, in a low, tense voice, that Jared has left his car and is now tailing them on foot, they both start jogging, heading for the fog curling around the trees ahead. When Martin hears a distant roar of fury from behind, he hoists Jon into his arms and breaks into a dead-out sprint, adrenaline giving him the strength to carry on despite the burning in his arms and legs. He’s less than twenty meters from the edge of the fog bank when there’s a horrible squelching sound from behind, and something huge and misshapen hurtles low over his head to land with a loud _thud_ between him and the tree line.

Martin skids to a stop, trying to keep Jon from getting jostled too much. The misshapen thing collapses in on itself for a moment before rising up into a massive human form. Martin realizes with a dizzy shock that, in order to see the man’s face, he has to crane his head back. He hasn’t had to do that even once since he was fourteen years old. The figure before Martin is easily half again as tall as he is, and at least that much broader as well.

 _“Archivist!”_ snarls Jared Hopworth, fury in his deep, froggy voice, and Martin momentarily forgets how to breathe. Jon manages to twist out of Martin’s grasp and get his feet on the ground, though he still clings to Martin’s side, and Martin still clings to him.

“Jared,” says Jon, an unmistakable tremor in his voice.

“You did this, didn’t you?” roars Jared. “Put this stupid eyeball up there where it won’t stop _looking_ at me? Made everyone so scared of everything that they barely bother to be scared of _me_ anymore?” He yanks a sleeve of his ragged-looking, heavily-patched tracksuit back to his elbow. A barely-healed gash stretches nearly the length of his forearm. “Turned three of me favorite gym regulars into knife-waving maniacs?”

“I—” Jon stammers out. “I didn’t—”

“Oh, shud _dup,”_ says Jared. “I know it was you. You wanna know how I know?” He plunges a hand into his own ribcage, making Martin squeak with shock and disgust. When his hand emerges, he’s clutching a curved white object—a rib. Before Martin’s horrified gaze, an eye pops open on one end, looking straight at Jon. “Your _fucking rib_ won’t stop sprouting _fucking eyes!”_ He tosses it aside into the dirt. Jon makes a tiny abortive motion towards it, and a little indignant sound.

“It was useful, though,” Jared continues, in a conspiratorial tone. “The eyes would never point where I wanted them to. After a while, I figured they were pointing towards you. So I followed them.” He grins, showing entirely too many teeth. “Looks like I figured right.”

He takes a step forward, and both Martin and Jon scramble back a few paces. “We’re going to fix this,” says Jon, sounding like he’s trying to convince himself instead of Jared. “So you should really just—just leave us alone—”

“Yeah, right.” Jared laughs, a deep, menacing sound. “I should’ve killed you last time. I’m not going to waste my second chance.” His gaze turns speculative, and Martin’s stomach churns. “I bet your friend there has some good bones. Now you, I’m done with yours. Looks like you got plenty of eyes in there, though. Bound to be a good one somewhere—” Jared takes a deliberate step forward, reaching out with one massive hand.

The terror turning Martin’s insides to jelly freezes into a razor-sharp icicle, impaling him in place. Jared advances, that awful shark’s grin on his face, and Martin knows that he’s going to die, and it’s going to hurt, and there’s nothing he can do.

And then Jon pulls desperately on his hand, trying to get him to run even though it’s pointless, can’t he _see_ it’s pointless, but Jon won’t let go, won’t leave him there even though if he does then maybe Jared will stop to hurt Martin and Jon could get away. Instead, Jon reaches for the knife sheath clipped to Martin’s belt that he almost forgot he had, and draws Daisy’s old knife, and holds it out in front of them both with a hand that shakes. And Martin realizes that Jon isn’t going to leave, he’s going to keep his promise even though it’s going to get him killed, and Jared is going to go after Jon first because he’s the one Jared’s angry with and he’s got a weapon besides, and Jon will be _dead_ and then Martin will be _alone—_

And Martin thinks, _please, no—_

And a soundless roar rises from the cold place below his lungs that leaks numbness into his dreams and his weak moments. A chill wind swirls through the field where they stand. It doesn’t howl; it isn’t strong. But it’s colder than a field of ice, colder than the empty spaces between the stars.

It’s as cold as an abandoned hearth, empty like only a place once but no longer loved can be. The kind of emptiness to which no pristine, untouched, lifeless place could ever compare.

The fog bursts from the trees like water from a broken dam and swallows whole the three tiny figures in the field.

* * *

Jon draws the knife from Martin’s belt. He doesn’t know how to fight with a knife. He knows any attempt at resistance is futile. But Martin is frozen in place, too afraid to move, and Jon _will not_ allow Martin to die without a fight. Not even if they’re both doomed anyway.

He has only a moment’s warning, as the breeze turns cold enough to freeze his very bones, before the fog rolls in with the force of a tidal wave.

For a few seconds, Jon is utterly blind. There is nothing before his eyes but the white of the fog, nothing in the entire _world_ but white. All sound has ceased, and the air is still as the earth beneath his feet.

But not even the depths of the Lonely can sever the Archivist from the Eye.

And so when Jon looks up, to the place where the sky used to be, he can see first a dark circle behind the white, and then its bright halo, and then the whole Eye in its awful glory swims out of the mist to stare, once again, down at him. The mist around Jon thins under the scrutiny, but it doesn’t fade away entirely—whatever just happened appears to have expanded the borders of the Lonely spot.

Whatever just happened.

_Shit._

Jon whirls around, eyes wide open for any sign of Martin—or rather, he tries to. But when he tries to move, he finds he can’t. There’s something wrapped around his middle, so tightly it’s nearly painful.

Jon looks down at himself. A dense clump of fog about two or three times as large as his body is adhered to his side, holding on with several thick tendrils. They’re strangely solid for fog. And also— _warm?_

And then Jon realizes what’s going on. As he does, the fog seems to twist and shrink, and finally resolves itself into Martin. Who is kneeling on the wet grass with his face in Jon’s side, arms locked around Jon’s waist with fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.

Jon manages to extricate his far hand, and reaches around to gently run his fingers through Martin’s hair. Martin looks up at him, face a mask of anguish.

“Don’t go,” he begs, voice weak and echoing strangely.

“I’m not going anywhere,” says Jon.

“Promise?” whispers Martin. His outline flickers strangely, as though he’s about to turn back into mist.

Jon curls his free hand into the hair at the nape of Martin’s neck, and his trapped hand into Martin’s jumper. “I promise,” he says.

Martin takes several shuddering breaths, and the bank of fog starts to recede in earnest. It doesn’t retreat all the way to the tree line, but a wide space appears around the two of them, and the air loses its chill.

Jared Hopworth is still nowhere to be seen.

Martin finally drags himself to his feet, though he doesn’t let go of Jon. He can’t seem to figure out how to walk and hold on at the same time, so after a dozen stumbling paces he just picks Jon up instead. It can’t be easy on his arms, but Jon doesn’t have the heart to protest.

  
  


* * *

It turns out that Jared had left the keys in the ignition of the car he’d been driving: an incongruously small Honda which must have barely had enough room to fit him in the driver’s seat. Martin nearly hits his head squeezing into the passenger side door.

After two weeks of walking all day with a heavy bag on his back, sitting in a car feels almost criminally luxurious. Jon doesn’t try to turn on the radio. Instead he holds Martin’s hand over the center console, sneaking glances out of the side of his face while keeping most of his vision trained ahead. There aren’t many other cars driving on the road, but there are plenty of obstacles nevertheless.

* * *

The quiet lasts nearly all day. The longer it continues, the more Jon feels that he should try to break it, but he doesn’t know what to say that won’t sound like trite nonsense, insensitive in the wake of what they’ve just been through, so he doesn’t speak.

It’s only when they’re setting up camp that evening—in the back of the car this time, pushing down the rear seats to make a flat space—that Martin finally speaks up.

“He’s dead, isn’t he?” asks Martin, tone so flat it takes Jon a moment to register it as a question.

“Wh—oh, Jared?” At Martin’s nod, Jon allows his attention to wander for a moment before reporting back, “Yes. I can’t see him, so I think he’s... probably gone for good.”

Martin nods again. There’s another minute of silence before he continues with, “I could feel it. I _felt_ it take him.”

Jon isn’t sure what to say to that, so he just rests a hand against the small of Martin’s back, waiting for him to keep talking.

“I didn’t know how to do that before,” he says, very softly. “I didn’t know I _could_ do that. I just wanted him not to—to make me be alone.”

“And you’re not,” says Jon carefully, not sure if he’s saying the right thing but feeling very strongly that he has to say _something._ “You saved me.”

“Because I k—because I _killed_ him,” whispers Martin. A tear rolls down his cheek, and Jon’s heart clenches. “I don’t want to. I don’t want to do that, I don’t want to _have done_ that, I don’t want to be the kind of _thing_ that _does_ that—”

A while later, after Martin has cried himself out, he asks, voice raspy, “Is it bad that I want to take it back? I—I know he was a m—murderer. I mean already, besides trying to kill you. So it’s probably for the best that he’s—gone. But… that’s not all he was, was he? He had _friends._ If I had known that I could do that...” He trails off before adding in a small voice, “No. I still would’ve done it. But—I wish I hadn’t. I wish I hadn’t had to choose between your life and his. Even if he was trying to hurt us. Hurt _you._ ” He looks up at Jon, finally, and asks again, “Is that bad of me?”

Jon takes Martin’s hands in his, thinking over his words carefully. “I think it would be worse if you didn’t,” he says. “I’m glad you’re not happy about it. Well. I’m not glad you’re upset, but... I am glad that, after everything we’ve been through, you’re still _you_ enough to care about hurting other people, even people who hurt you. Or threaten to hurt you, anyway.” Jon takes a deep breath. “I thought, at first, that I wouldn’t be upset about... what I did to Peter Lukas. But... I am. I mean, I’m not sad that he’s gone—he was selfish and cruel and he hurt people, killed them even, because it made him feel powerful. Not to mention what he did to you. I don’t regret that it’s done. But I regret that _I_ did it. Even if it was the reason I was able to save you.” He lets out a little huff of breath through his nose, the barest imitation of a mirthless laugh. “Maybe that’s selfish. But it’s true.”

Jon is looking down, so it takes him by surprise for a moment when Martin folds him into a hug. Jon wraps his arms around Martin’s back and presses his face against his sternum, luxuriating in the simple fact that he can. “I know what you mean,” Martin mumbles. “And, when you put it like that, it doesn’t sound selfish to me. But if it is, then I guess we can be selfish together.”

Jon nods, half transfixed by the vibration of the words in Martin’s chest, the sound of the breath in his lungs. It’s moments like these that make him think, fleetingly, that maybe everything they’ve been through was worth it. Just for this one endless instant of communion, of understanding. It isn’t true, of course; he knows that afterward. But for a tiny, sweet eternity, there is nothing else in the world, and all is as it should be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: dissociation, minor character death, body horror (canon-typical Jared Hopworth, too many eyes), canon-typical angsty moral dilemmas 
> 
> Want to make my day? Tell me what part of this chapter was your favorite!


	5. Close Encounter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Basira finds a new job, some old enemies, and the person she’s been looking for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [NevillesGran](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NevillesGran) for beta reading this chapter!
> 
> Content warnings in the end notes.

“Thank you _so_ much,” babbles the shorter of the two middle-aged men as he clings to the doorway of the apartment block. His partner, more reticent but no less grateful, nods along while counting out her fee. “Really, I don’t know what we would’ve done without your help, I haven’t got the faintest idea how we would’ve made it—”

Basira smiles tightly, knowing the expression looks forced but unable to muster up anything better. The gratitude is nice, and the money is nicer, and these two have been pleasant enough company despite the chatter, but she’d prefer the relative safety of her apartment and uninterrupted time with her maps and notebooks. Unfortunately, she still has to eat, so it’s a good thing her wealth of knowledge from the Institute has translated into a source of income. The business of figuring out where to get food and water and all the other necessities of life now that everything has been turned upside-down is time-consuming, and time is something Basira doesn’t care to squander with Daisy still in the wild. Cash is safer to part with.

The first few times, she had felt a little odd about being paid for something that was so low-effort on her part, and so important to others. But she hasn’t turned anyone down for lack of funds, nor taken more than they could spare, and it’s not her fault she can’t afford to track down supermarket trucks gone astray or volunteer in the rapidly-growing network of nearby community gardens. She has a job to do, and nobody else can do it.

Still, even though guiding talkative strangers through the warped streets isn’t exactly her idea of fun, Basira can’t deny that there’s something gratifying about actually helping people, regardless of her more pragmatic reasons. She finally has something to show for the last year and a half of her life. Well. Aside from headache-inducing superpowers and the empty place at her side where Daisy used to fit, anyway.

Basira deliberately unclenches her jaw. She’s going to fix both of those, she reminds herself. She just needs to keep working. 

The man in the doorway is still talking, so she tries to tune back in, with mixed success. She nods along, dispenses some generic advice about dealing with the Hunt—they’d all caught snatches of gleaming teeth in the shadows and the echoes of footsteps from behind at some point or other during the trip—and leaves the two of them to climb the stairs to their friend’s flat. This is her third trip of the day, and she’s far from home, but she thinks she can summon up another hunch before going to bed, if she really puts her mind to it.

* * *

A few minutes after she settles in at her desk, Basira hears a familiar click and whirr. Sure enough, a tape recorder is perched on the corner of her desk, listening away. 

The morning after the Eye opened, she’d found a recorder on her kitchen table, silent and satiated, with a tape of three and a half minutes of nothing inside. Each evening since, she has heard the recorder click on a few hours after dark, run for a few minutes, and then click off. There’s never a tape inside when it starts recording, but there’s always one inside when it’s done.

She’s been checking the tapes, of course, but there’s never anything of interest on them. Just background noise—heavily obscured by static—and occasionally a snatch of her muttering to herself. Once the recorder is finished for tonight, she plays the tape back—nothing interesting, as usual—and stacks it beside the other four. _Like tally marks on a prison wall,_ she thinks to herself with a grim chuckle. Five nights since the end of the world.

The first time she’d heard the recorder click on, she’d been spooked out of her wits. Prior to the past few days, the tapes had almost always been a sign of imminent danger, when they hadn’t been showing up to listen in on a statement. 

But now, they don’t seem to mean anything. She has no idea why they’re still showing up, especially in such a regular pattern. She’s wondered once or twice if Jon is on the other end of them, in some form. But given all that’s happened, Basira isn’t sure if she wants to find out what shape he’s in. Not now that there’s an enormous Eye where the sun should be. Luckily, she hasn’t yet had a hunch about him. She just keeps checking the tapes, and neatly stacking them afterwards where they won’t get in her way. 

* * *

A few more days pass; a few more empty-ish tapes pile up on the shelf. Basira helps a few more people meet up with friends, or get out of town, or find a safe place to squat now that their homes are unlivable. She rescues a handful of pets. She walks a kid across the Chelsea Bridge, the suspension cables overhead groaning audibly, stretched beyond what they should’ve been forced to take. She keeps following her hunches, not that they lead her to anything useful.

She doesn’t find Daisy.

But it’s only been a week. Well—a week since the new nonsense. It’s been a month since Daisy… gave in. But if Basira has learned anything from the past week, it’s that despair is the greatest danger in this new world, and reckless hope is the most potent weapon. If Basira believes that she has failed, then that in itself is failure. If she believes that Daisy can still come back, then eventually, it will be so.

Basira tells herself this until it resonates inside her skull, infusing her every breath with the force of her conviction. Doubt is poison, and if she has to hold death at bay with nothing but sheer force of will, then that’s what she’s going to do.

* * *

Basira shoulders her bag and nods a friendly but brisk goodbye to Mickey, the man behind the counter, before heading out the door towards home. Mickey’s shop is the only one in walking distance of her flat still doing business after a week of this mess. They’ve stopped accepting cards or checks, only cash, and even that is widely variable in purchasing power; goods and favors are turning out to be much more reliable. Basira knows better than to part with any of her precious tinned food, but a couple of old winter coats went a surprisingly long way, and her bodyguarding-trips-slash-walking-tours are keeping her afloat.

Today is the seventh day of the apocalypse—the eighth, if she counts that initial chaotic evening and night. She hasn’t had a breakthrough yet, but she feels good about today. And not just in the generic way she tells herself every morning; she’s been nursing a hunch for the past three hours, and it feels like an important one. Hopefully, by the time she gets home, it’ll be ready to hatch.

There’s a little scuffling sound from behind her. Basira glances over her shoulder in time to see what looks like a small, mangy dog watching her. As she continues walking, the dog keeps pace, in fits and starts, not matching her exactly, but never getting more than a few dozen meters away.

Basira feels a spasm of unease.

She immediately forces it down. She can’t afford to be afraid of whatever this is. It might be nothing, but if it isn’t nothing, then fearing it will make it stronger. It’s really very frustrating, she muses, to be forced to modulate her emotions all the time, to be unable to safely acknowledge her own fear even in the privacy of her own mind. She allows her frustration to overtake the anxiety until it’s all but gone.

Taking care not to openly stare, Basira inspects the creature out of the corner of her eye. It doesn’t look healthy; she can see the fleas from here. Corruption, maybe? It doesn’t look disgusting enough, not really, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Caught up in the memory of the awful dried-up dead worms that had turned up occasionally in odd corners of the Institute, Basira quickens her pace.

There’s a prickle on the back of her neck. Reflexively, she glances around, but there’s nobody looking. And honestly, it doesn’t feel like she's being _observed._ She’s had plenty of experience with that particular sensation over the past year and a half. This is completely distinct. She’s not being watched. She’s being _followed._

Her gaze lands on the dog again, but it’s not a dog anymore. It’s well over half her height at the shoulder now, and there’s something not quite right about its teeth. In shock, Basira half-stumbles, half-runs a few steps forward. The wolf-thing takes a great snuffling breath and speeds up, and Basira realizes her mistake.

It’s not only fear that makes creatures like this stronger. Playing into their nature will work just as well, and Basira has started fleeing from a Hunter.

There’s only one thing for it now. She lengthens her stride, and breaks into a run.

* * *

Basira pounds up the stairs to her flat and slams the door behind her, pressing her full weight against the door to keep it closed. The thing following her throws its weight against the other side a scant second later, snarling and snapping and nearly dislodging her. She finds herself marveling at the change in its size and temperament, and forces herself to think of something else. As her dinner plans change from wispy mental excuse to actual opinion, the noises from beyond the door decrease in frequency and volume until nothing is left. 

Basira takes a deep breath, and then opens the door again, deliberately absentminded. The dog-thing is still there, but it’s back to its previous size. Good. It snaps in her general direction, but she doesn’t flinch. Deprived of a suitable quarry, the creature slinks off toward the stairwell. 

Basira shuts the door again and busies herself unpacking her shopping, resolutely ignoring the lingering prickle between her shoulder blades. The realization hits while she’s stacking soup tins, and she hears the one in her hand clatter to the floor as she grabs at the counter for support, knees gone wobbly with shock. 

There’s another Hunter after her. 

It’s the only explanation for the nebulous, intangible feeling that something is following her, even now that she’s in her flat alone with the door and windows all locked and the curtains drawn. The tiny creature that had been after her before can’t be the reason; looking back, she’d had this same exact feeling even during the chase, when it should have been subsumed other, much more immediate fear. 

Basira thinks back over the past week. She’s been feeling the same way this whole time. Which means... 

Which means she has to sit down before she falls down, as the itchy tingling sensation of an impending hunch crawls up her spine to her skull. Once she’s safely seated on the sofa, she allows her train of thought to continue on to its inevitable conclusion. 

There’s another Hunter after her, different from the dog. It hasn’t attacked yet, which means it’s waiting for an opportunity, which in turn indicates that it’s cautious of her, whatever it is. It clearly doesn’t want to get too close until it’s sure of its own victory. The fact that it’s already taken this long means that it’s scouting: it doesn’t know her habits and it hasn’t seen her fight. Or it hasn’t seen enough, anyway. 

Which means it’s not Daisy. 

It’s stupid to feel disappointed that Daisy isn’t stalking her with intent to kill, so Basira doesn’t. Instead, she starts planning. This is a prime opportunity to try rescuing someone from the Hunt. If it works, she’ll know what to do when she finally catches up with Daisy. If it doesn’t, well, that’ll be one fewer monster on the streets of London.

She opens up the paper map of the city she’d bought as soon as she’d realized that the map on her phone had gone all wrong and begins studying it intently. She’ll need to arrange to be out and about less, she muses. That means less time to help other people navigate the streets or deal with the monsters stalking them, which in turn means that her resources are going to be tighter. She’ll have to start rationing food. Well, rationing more strictly. And if she’s going to try this, she’ll need to figure out who or what it was before; she suspects she’ll need a starting place to work from, if she’s to have any chance of success. 

It feels good to have something to focus on. It distracts her from the omnipresent fear that, no matter how hard she tries, she can’t quite get used to. Basira makes notes on her precious map, and writes lists of ideas and reminders, and takes inventory of all the supplies in her flat for the fourth time in three days, and very carefully does not think about how it is very nearly comforting to be able to use the Eye’s power to keep herself safe. 

* * *

Five frustrating days later, Basira wakes in the morning to find that the feeling of being followed has gone. 

Again, she has to subdue her own ridiculous disappointment. It’s a _good_ thing that the creature that had been chasing her has stopped. She’ll probably have other opportunities to practice before she comes face-to-face _(snout,_ she thinks first, and then scolds herself for it) with Daisy. Opportunities that she can choose, instead of ones forced upon her by necessity. It’s better this way. She didn’t even make any headway on figuring out who this Hunter used to be; her hunches are always useful, but she hasn’t yet gotten the trick of figuring out the answers she actually wants. 

It doesn’t end up mattering, though. That afternoon, she finds out who it was anyway.

* * *

After breakfast, Basira makes another trip to the shop, grateful that she no longer has to be careful—well, _as_ careful—traveling outside of her flat. Mickey tosses his makeshift club down on the counter to clasp her hand when she comes in. 

“Good to see you,” he says gruffly. “When you didn’t show on schedule the other day, we all thought... Well. ‘S good to see you.” 

“Likewise,” says Basira. She debates with herself before adding, by way of explanation, “There was something after me. A Hunter, I think. It was gone when I woke up this morning.” 

She is rewarded by the knowing look on Mickey's face. “Couple of customers came in an hour or two back, saying there’d been a fight between a bunch of monsters. From the sound of it, at least one Hunter. Maybe yours lost a fight?” 

“Maybe,” says Basira. She wrangles directions out of him before inquiring after the customers who’d been in earlier. They’re looking for someone to help them get out of London, and since Basira does still need to eat, she asks Mickey to give them her name and set up a meeting. Once she’s agreed to a time to come back and meet with—her prospective clients, she supposes she can call them—she heads out of the shop and off towards the scene of the fight. 

* * *

When she finally makes it to the place Mickey described, she’s impatient, the urge to find out what happened buzzing in her bones. But when she finally sets her eyes on the scene of the fight, she realizes with a stab of nausea that she might have been a little over-eager.

Whatever Fear this place belonged to before, it’s the Hunt’s territory now. The streetlamps and cars are askew somehow, but not in the mind-melting way that pockets of the Spiral tend towards; rather, the area calls to mind a dense forest, despite the fact that it’s in the middle of a broad London street. The scents on the air—petrol and metal from the cars, decay from the rubbish in the gutters, and fear-sweat from the hundreds of people who have passed this way recently—are sharp and distinct in a way that is frankly impossible for a human nose or brain to naturally perceive. The scene is still and quiet, but every distant sound is an assault on Basira’s senses, every flicker of motion from wind-swept debris the sign of a potential predator. 

And even though—much as she hates to admit it—Basira thoroughly belongs to a different Fear, she can’t shake the vicious, ravenous, _monstrous_ hunger that rises within her at the sight of the bounty of fresh meat in the middle of the road. 

From her distant vantage point, peering around the back of an abandoned car, Basira can see a tangle of red-smeared limbs. There are too many for it to have been human, but without getting closer, she has no hope of figuring out what it _was._

This place has her on edge, but that’s neither a change nor a particular surprise. Basira searches the area with her eyes, and strains her ears to try and catch any sign of another living thing in the area, but she finds nothing. It’s probably safe, then. She glances around the tops of the nearby buildings one last time, before taking a deep breath, muscles tensing to stand. 

And then freezes in place as a new scent hits the back of her throat. It’s something big—Basira has no idea how she can tell its size from its _smell,_ of all things, but she’s nevertheless sure that whatever it is, it’s massive. And it’s also very close by. 

Basira holds very still, and keeps her breathing as steady as she can manage. She has an awful suspicion that this new monster can smell fear. 

The silence stretches for a minute. Then two. Three. Basira still doesn’t dare move. The smell remains strong in her nostrils and throat. She still can’t see or hear anything, but she knows all the way down to her bones that giving away her position would be a lethal mistake. 

Then, on the very edge of her hearing, Basira catches a familiar noise. Short, sharp. Mechanical. 

The _click_ of a button on an old-fashioned tape recorder. 

There’s a sudden rush of movement. Basira watches, spellbound, as a massive creature uncurls itself from behind a truck on the other side of the street. It’s furred, or perhaps feathered, in shades of gray and brown, with the occasional splash of incongruous bright color. The patches on its—coat? hide?—seem to shift as she watches, camouflaging it against the storefronts and cars. Despite its enormous size, it’s surprisingly difficult to track; Basira’s eyes keep sliding off as if it weren't there. 

The creature gallops over to the source of the sound—the sill of a smashed-in window a few doors down from where it had been hiding. Basira watches as it picks up the recorder with strangely delicate movements, suspending the tiny shape between enormous hooked claws. It makes a tiny whining sound as it clumsily pokes at what looks like the recorder’s buttons with one talon. 

There’s a _crunch_ as the talon punches straight through the recorder. The distant, faint _whirr_ of the tape dies instantly. 

The creature stares frozen at the broken tape recorder for several long seconds. Then it lets out a wail that ends in a roar and flings the lump of crushed plastic away somewhere Basira can’t see. As it does, it straightens up just enough, and Basira finally gets a good look at the marking on its back, between its massive shoulders. 

Amidst the shifting patches of color, there’s a pale, jagged, vaguely round marking. Rather like a star. Or, if one tilts one’s head and squints, like a daisy. 

Basira’s hand finds its way up to cover her mouth. 

Daisy finally stops roaring and turns to poke at the mess in the street. Her movements seem—strange, somehow. Halfhearted. Lacking the smooth grace with which she’d stalked towards the recorder only a minute or two before. After a few minutes, she turns away, seeming bored. Basira breathes the world’s quietest sigh of relief. For a moment, she’d been worried she was going to watch Daisy eat the grisly remains of what Basira is now sure was her prey. 

Daisy ambles back over to her hiding place and makes as if to sit back down. But just then, a breeze springs up, ruffling Basira’s hair, and with a sudden, dizzy shock of terror, she realizes that she’s directly upwind of Daisy. 

Basira hears Daisy sniff the air, and immediately hunches down, trying to make herself as small as possible. She hears Daisy’s footsteps thump almost gently against the road, hears the soft sound of a massive paw landing on something wet. Hears, from terrifyingly close, the sound of a breath drawn through a predator’s nose. 

_No, I’m not ready,_ thinks Basira desperately. _I’m not strong enough yet, I haven’t prepared, I don’t know what I’m doing—_ With a dizzy mixture of panic and guilty relief, she realizes that her gun is still locked safely away in her flat. If Daisy attacks, Basira doesn’t have the slightest hope of stopping her. 

But then Daisy wanders off. Basira’s heart continues to hammer. There’s no way that Daisy didn’t know exactly where she was after all that, so what the _hell—_

Her train of thought is cut off by a scraping, crunching sound from the road, and Daisy’s accompanying whine. After only a minute or so, Daisy finishes whatever it is she’s doing, and lopes off down the street, leaving Basira, the mess in the road, and her previous hideout behind. 

When she’s sure Daisy isn’t coming back, some twenty minutes later, Basira finally stands up and stretches her aching, cramped muscles. Once she can walk without stumbling, she edges out into the road, still on guard for monsters. The fact that Daisy has left doesn’t mean that the danger has passed. 

Basira pauses on the edge of the slick red stain on the tarmac. The mess looks more humanoid than it did from a distance, to her dismay. Except that there’s definitely too much of it to have come from a single person. 

And then the scene snaps together, and Basira realizes what she’s looking at. Before her lie the broken bodies of Trevor Herbert and Julia Montauk. Savage grins twist their features, and there’s something distinctly _off_ about their hands and feet, but they are undeniably the same pair who attacked the Institute, three weeks before it all went wrong. 

Basira takes a step back and sits down hard on the bumper of a car behind her. She has a strong stomach, and she wasn’t fond of either of these two. But it’s still a shock to see someone she’d last known as a living, breathing human in such a state. Not to mention the fact that she’s pretty sure she now knows the identity of the Hunter—or rather Hunters—who had been after her until today. 

As Basira swallows back the bile at the back of her throat, her eye catches on something new. It looks like there’s writing scratched into the surface of the road. She can’t quite make it out from this angle, though—the lettering is very rough, and it’s upside down from her. Half in a daze, she circles the gory scene, tilting her head to try and make sense of the two words. It starts with a P, and there are three things that look like capital As in the second word. No—wait—one of them is a B—

 _PLEASE BASIRA,_ reads Daisy’s message. 

* * *

Once she’s safely back in her flat, Basira flops on her sofa again. The old thing groans in protest at this continual misuse, but she pays it no mind. 

_Please Basira._ What does that _mean?_ Please, Basira, hurry up? No—Daisy wouldn’t have fled, surely, if that’s what she’d meant. Please, Basira, I’ve changed my mind? Much more fitting, given her behavior, but it could be wishful thinking on Basira’s part. Please, Basira, come join me? Please, Basira, dispose of these bodies for me? Basira, I did this to please you? 

Basira makes a snarl every bit as furious as Daisy’s as she smacks the back of her poor sofa in frustration. There’s just not enough _there_ to draw any kind of conclusion—

Wait. 

Basira slaps her own forehead, then winces. She doesn’t have to guess and worry. She can figure this out. She just has to think of the right question, and then it will be simple. 

_Like finding Daisy was simple?_ asks a contrary voice in the back of her mind. _You had no idea where she was or what she was doing until you nearly bumped into her. You didn’t even realize she was protecting you—_

Basira’s thoughts screech to a halt. Daisy was protecting her from the other Hunters. She must have been tracking them this whole time, and when they caught Basira’s scent again, Daisy finished them off. They were distracted, she realizes in a dizzy rush. There were two of them, and even if they had less raw strength, they were older, more experienced in the chase. On her own, Daisy couldn’t catch them, especially not when she also had the not-Sasha thing to deal with. _(Oh. So that’s what happened to that thing. Well, good riddance.)_ But once they’d caught Basira’s scent again, they’d gotten sloppy, excited by the prospect of new prey. Gradually, Daisy had gotten closer and closer, until finally she had been able to catch up with them, and she’d taken them out, one after another, in the scrap that had alerted Mickey's customers. And she’d been there ever since, waiting for the bait she’d made from their bodies to bring in other things that hungered for fresh meat. 

She hadn’t eaten them, Basira realizes, exhaustion beginning to overtake the dizziness. There hadn’t been anything missing. Daisy had chosen not to eat something that had once been a person, even in her lost, confused state. She’d had enough presence of mind not to attack Basira. She’d left a _message_ in _written English._

She’s still in there. There’s enough left of Daisy that she can be saved. 

The confirmation of what Basira had been hoping for the past month hits her like a freight train. The beginnings of tears prick her eyes, but she blinks them back. There's no time for sentimentality. Not now. Now, it's time to get to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: minor character death, scary large animals, gore. (No animal death.)
> 
> Tell me your favorite line, if you like :)


	6. A Story and a Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Melanie and Georgie go to the Institute, and then go to the Institute again, and then go home because the Institute sucks, actually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [Marianne_Dashwood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marianne_Dashwood), [NevillesGran](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NevillesGran), [rustkid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rustkid), and [smallhorizons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallhorizons) for beta reading this chapter! (Seriously, y’all are the best, and this one is so, so much better for your help.)
> 
> Note the shiny new work summary! Thanks to rustkid for helping me come up with it.
> 
> Content warnings in the end notes.

It ends up taking another full day before Melanie and Georgie are ready to go to the Institute. The bubble of space around their apartment block fluctuates rapidly compared to the neighborhood outside, going from Lonely to Dark, and then to Flesh for one disgusting hour, before seeming to settle on a feeble sort of Vast. Through it all, Georgie’s presence seems to create a safe zone of sorts: the ambient weirdness that’s become the new normal for everyone else diminishes to almost nothing within three or four meters of her.

They finally set out on the morning of the third day. To both Melanie and Georgie’s shock, the Tube is still in operation, at least partially. Neither of them even thought to try the station closest to their flat, but when Georgie spots people coming and going from the first one they pass, she stops one of them and demands to know what’s going on. 

The man, like everyone else, looks drawn and exhausted, and he’s covered in a thin layer of grime, but he answers Georgie’s questions readily enough. Apparently, some of the tunnels have collapsed, but large sections are still safe enough to use, and so the trains are running as normally as they can. They don’t seem exactly safe, though to be fair, neither is street-level travel. At least all of the accidents the man has heard of have been _much_ more frightening than actually dangerous.

“Should we chance it?” Georgie asks once the man has departed. 

Melanie frowns, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. “Let’s try it,” she says eventually. “But—stay close?” 

“Of course,” says Georgie, before squeezing her hand and leading her down into the earthy-smelling depths of the London Underground. 

* * *

It is, as promised, an unpleasant ride. The smell of wet dirt is omnipresent, the air is damp and close, and there is barely any room between all the people crushed into the train carriage. Fed up with being bumped into by careless fellow travelers, Melanie makes the mistake of complaining about this last indignity out loud. 

Georgie’s voice is puzzled when she answers, “What do you mean? We’re the only ones in this carriage.” 

The bottom falls out of Melanie’s stomach. “Wh— _Georgie there are people touching me literally right now.”_

“What?” Now Georgie sounds—not exactly alarmed, but definitely concerned. Her hand tightens in Melanie’s, just a hair too slowly to be an instinctive reaction. “Where?” 

Melanie is about to answer, but between one breath and the next, she loses track of all the points of contact between herself and the crowd of strangers around her. Confused, she reaches a hand out in front of herself, and then around her side to her back. Nothing. 

“Melanie?” 

“I hate this stupid apocalypse,” Melanie snarls. “They’re gone. I thought we were crowded in but as soon as you told me we were alone, all the other people disappeared.” 

“Oh.” A pause. “Should I—um.” 

Melanie can hear the question Georgie isn’t quite sure how to ask, wrapped up in that little sound. She sighs, trying to gather her thoughts enough to answer. It’s not easy, with the train rattling and making awful noises, the air inside still close and _dense_ in a way which feels distinctly unnatural. It’s as though every time she finds something approaching composure, another horrifying screeching sound of metal on metal comes through the structure of the train to make her flinch. 

Finally, fed up, she blurts out, “I’ll ask you. If I’m worried whether something is real.” It comes out sounding more curt than she meant it, due to the half-submerged panic she’s been trying to fight off ever since she realized the train was messing with her head. “Is that, um, okay with you?” she tacks on feebly, grimacing at her graceless handling of the whole interaction. 

Georgie seems to take it in stride, though, because she just says, “Of course,” the barest hint of a relieved smile in her voice. 

And obviously it doesn’t magically fix the bigger problem of the slow-motion end of the world, but Melanie can’t deny that hearing Georgie be audibly unconcerned by the chaos all around is deeply reassuring. She knows that if she tries to say it out loud, it’ll come out wrong—Georgie will brush it off, or maybe even be upset by the notion that her steadiness in the face of danger is admirable. It’s not like it’s due to any effort on her part, after all. 

But that’s not what Melanie would mean, if she were to try and express how she feels. In a way, Georgie’s admirability doesn’t have much to do with her actual actions. It’s less that she’s _doing_ something worthy of praise, and more that thinking about her steadiness makes Melanie feel, well... 

Safe. 

So Melanie holds onto Georgie’s hand, and cradles her mushy feelings like something delicate and precious, deep inside where they can’t be misunderstood. 

* * *

They end up having more of a walk ahead than they expected once they leave the Tube. The station nearest to the Institute was one of the few that totally collapsed in the immediate wake of everything going wrong, and the next one is a ways off. They don’t find out about this fact until the train operator announces the end of the line a stop before they were expecting to disembark. Melanie hears the _tap-tap-tap_ sound of Georgie poking at her phone as they climb the stairs. 

“Still nothing?” asks Melanie as they reach the top. 

“Nothing,” says Georgie with a sigh. “I really wish—here’s the last stair—that landlines weren’t the only thing still working.” 

“Does your landlady have one?” asks Melanie as they emerge from the station, but if Georgie answers, she doesn’t hear it. She’s too caught up in her own relief at smelling air free from the stench of dirt at long last. She gets a few seconds of near-euphoria before the flashbulb memory hits. 

The air smells exactly the same as the inside of the Institute archives the last time she was there—recycled and stale, with a faint, incongruous hint of seawater. It has the same penetrating, lingering chill, too. Melanie is suddenly back in the archives, trapped and miserable, weak and hurting. 

But that’s not her life anymore. And for better or worse, it never will be again. 

Melanie shakes her head a bit to clear it. At Georgie’s inquiring noise, she sends a tight smile in her general direction. There’s no point in dwelling on the past. And maybe it’s her imagination, but the cold seems to bite less. 

The streets are quiet, even for post-apocalyptic London. “Is this Lonely fog?” Georgie asks after a few minutes of nothing but their own footsteps. 

“Yeah,” says Melanie, and then, “Can you really not—I mean, do you actually need the confirmation?”

Georgie considers that for half a block. Eventually, she says, “Not really? I’ve been able to guess all the ones we’ve actually been in so far. But—I don’t know. It seems like a good idea to be sure of what’s going on, at least. Even if it doesn’t seem to affect me as much.” They walk in silence for another minute before Georgie asks, “So, do all the pockets of weird space feel the same? The ones that are the same kind, I mean.” 

Now it’s Melanie’s turn to chew on her answer before speaking it. “Now that you mention it, no. The bit of Lonely in our flat was different than this.” 

“Different how?” 

“It was less cold, I think? But also quieter, and the smell was different.” 

“The smell?” Georgie’s voice is full of fascinated curiosity. “I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary.” 

“Yeah. Back at home it was sort of—empty? Like, _aggressively_ devoid of scent. Even when there was something in front of me that I knew I should be able to smell, it was like it was coming from down the hall.” 

“Is that why you were having so much trouble with breakfast?” She sounds amused, now. 

“Yep. It turns out that scrambled eggs are sort of nasty when there’s nothing to distract you from the texture.” 

“Oh. Yeah, I can see how that might be. Ugh.” Melanie catches the edge of what must have been a full-body shudder from where Georgie is still hanging onto her hand. “What about here?” 

“Here, it smells like the Institute used to. Recycled air, and a bit of the ocean.” 

“The _ocean?_ Why did the Institute smell like the ocean?” 

“I don’t know, really.” Melanie absentmindedly rubs at the corner of one eyelid. It’s a good thing she was able to get all the necessary surgery done before who-knows-what happened to the hospital, but she’s still irrationally peeved at the universe’s timing for messing everything up before she managed to get long-term prosthetics. The temporary ones she has now are reportedly made of clear plastic, and don’t fit quite right. “Maybe it was because Peter Lukas was causing it, and he spent so much time sailing before becoming head of the Institute?” 

“What, like he was smelly enough to stink up the whole building?” 

Melanie actually snorts at that. Loudly. “No. God, that would have been _awful._ I think it was just that his particular sort of loneliness kind of—infected the whole place.” A startling thought occurs to her. “You know, I don’t think I realized until just now how isolated I felt, during those last few weeks. The only people who I’ve talked to more than three or four times in the last month are you and my therapist—well, and the Admiral—but it feels like my social circle has expanded massively.” 

“Huh.” 

Melanie casts about for a lighter topic, but before she finds one, the chill damp on her face suddenly recedes, and her skin crawls with the unmistakable feeling of being watched. It’s even more insidiously familiar than the smell, and she has to stop in her tracks, fighting back a case of the shivers. Distantly, she hears Georgie gasp in shock, but she’s too wrapped up in her own thoughts to care. It takes every bit of willpower she possesses not to turn and run back into the fog. It’s only the fact that venturing alone into the Lonely is a near-certain death sentence that keeps her on this side of the fog barrier. 

“Melanie? Melanie, what’s wrong?” 

Oh, right. Georgie is here. Georgie can find her. 

Melanie turns tail and sprints back out of the open and into the fog. 

* * *

Georgie remembers that, once upon a time, before she heard a secret of the universe upon the lips of a corpse, she’d been uncomfortable around tall buildings. The way they would seem almost to curve, so impossibly tall that they could wrap around the sky, had used to fill her with an irrational dread. She can’t really recall the actual feeling, only that it had been disturbing enough that she hated to walk past skyscrapers. Craning her neck to stare up at the spindly tower that rises from the center of the Magnus Institute, taller and thinner than any skyscraper could ever be, she feels—well, not afraid, obviously. Not even all that uncomfortable. But the memory of that old discomfort makes itself known at the sight of the tower’s improbably distant peak silhouetted against the massive pupil of the Eye. 

Melanie makes a strangled sound of pure distress, yanking Georgie back out of her own head. 

Georgie looks over to see Melanie’s face twisted up in fear, the exact same expression as the one she wore when the world first broke. “Melanie? Melanie, what’s wrong?” asks Georgie. Melanie jerks at the sound of Georgie’s voice, as though she’d forgotten there was another person with her. 

Just as it hits Georgie that Melanie probably has some very bad memories associated with feeling watched, Melanie turns, yanking her hand out of Georgie’s, and runs back into the unnaturally smooth wall of fog behind them. Georgie wastes several precious seconds on confused shock before she remembers that if she loses Melanie in the gray miasma, she’ll probably never see her again. 

Cursing herself silently for not redoing the tether when they’d left the Tube, Georgie takes off after Melanie. Her heart pounds as she squints through the opaque air, trying to keep Melanie in sight. It’s not easy. 

Eventually, it becomes impossible. 

Georgie spins around, trying in vain to catch any glimpse of movement, but there’s nothing. Not even swirling amidst the fog; the air here is perfectly still, with not so much as the faintest of breezes to stir it, except for her own breath. Melanie is gone. 

Georgie slumps to the ground. The place at the base of her throat, which she distantly remembers used to go tight with fear back before she had her close encounter with the supernatural, feels so empty. It’s almost worse, being unable to fear that she’ll never see Melanie again. The only thing left is cold, dead certainty. 

Melanie had described to her, once, how it felt to spend hours, days, weeks submerged in the ambient Loneliness of the Institute; the way that time had seemed to slip away from her until she’d realize that the seasons have changed since she’d last exchanged more than three words in a row with someone else. Georgie has no such luxury. She feels every single moment scrape past, sharp and utterly undiluted. 

After a while—not an indeterminate, uncertain span, but rather the precise length of time it takes for Georgie’s breath to even out—she stands up again. Her brain is still scrambled by stunned grief, but she’s not about to lie down and accept her fate. She _won’t._

And as her despair begins to crystallize into rage, she hears a familiar voice call out in the fog. 

“Georgie?” 

* * *

The second time that Georgie and Melanie approach the Institute, they take better precautions. 

Once they had reunited in the mist, it had taken nearly an hour for them to calm down enough to even think about moving. Melanie had tried to put on a brave face, but Georgie could tell that just the idea of approaching the Institute again pained her. So instead, they’d made the long trek home, taking care not to get separated again. 

It had taken another few days until Melanie was ready to try again. The two of them had spent the interim slowly getting used to the new state of affairs. (Things haven’t collapsed as badly as Melanie feared and Georgie half-expected; the breakdown of mass communication is a disaster and a half, but there is shockingly little looting and robbery, and not even a single gang of apocalypse-happy murder-cannibals, despite the dire warnings of the horror film enthusiast two doors down.) 

When they finally make it back to the break in the fog outside the Institute, Melanie spends a long moment just standing still, breathing deeply. Georgie stands beside her, feeling useless. She’s unaffected by what she’s taken to calling “manifestations” of the Eye, of course, but the Eye seems to be the only Fear that leaves her with no ability to shield others. Darkness is less dark around her, cramped spaces less oppressive, hives of singing insects less seductive. But there’s nothing Georgie can do to hide Melanie from the piercing gaze of the sky. 

Eventually, Melanie gives herself a little shake, and steps across the border. Georgie can tell when the Eye’s gaze hits her again, because she shrinks in on herself, cringing. But she seems to take it better now that she’s expecting it; this time, she doesn’t turn and run. 

Melanie stands still, shuddering, before shaking her head and tugging Georgie forward. “Let’s just get this over with.” 

Georgie takes the lead again as they walk the last few blocks to the Institute. To Georgie’s surprise, the building seems mostly intact, despite the giant tower sticking up out of the middle of it. She can’t quite see where it emerges. 

To Georgie’s relief, the front door is unlocked. While she’s not exactly averse to the idea of breaking in, and doubts Melanie would be either, it’s a complication that neither of them is particularly well-equipped for. The building is eerily silent—nobody is at the front desk, and she can’t hear even a hint of footsteps or voices in the unnecessarily grand building. 

“Is it as deserted as it sounds?” asks Melanie. “Or is everyone just being really quiet?” 

“It’s deserted,” says Georgie. 

“Weird,” says Melanie. “It’s big enough, you’d think there would be some people taking shelter, right? Like in that one art gallery near home.” She frowns. “Unless you think the spooky tower is scaring them off?” 

“I think it might be,” says Georgie. “Although you’re right, it is strange that there’s _nobody._ Maybe they’re just hiding out somewhere else in the building?” 

“Maybe.” Melanie shivers. “But I sort of hope not. I don’t even want to think about some poor unsuspecting person stumbling across Artifact Storage.” 

Even though it’s only a conjecture, Georgie’s insides twist with pity. “Well, maybe it’s just the tower keeping everyone away,” she says, keeping her voice light. “If I were capable of fear, I think I would have turned and ran right along with you the first time I saw it. Anyway. Now that we’re here, where to?” 

“The archives,” says Melanie, dread in her voice. 

* * *

In the corridor outside of the archives, the uncanny silence is broken by the sounds of footsteps and paper brushing against paper. Georgie and Melanie pause to listen at the door and (in Georgie’s case) to try without success to peep around the edges. Eventually, they decide to give the handle a try as quietly as possible. 

The moment she cracks open the door to the archives, Georgie knows they’ve made a mistake. The place is a total mess—not the semi-disarray she’s seen it in the few times she’d come to meet Melanie, but full of haphazard heaps of paper and cassette tapes, with empty boxes and shelves strewn across the floor. And wandering amidst the mess are—

“I think we found the squatters,” breathes Georgie, in the faintest whisper she can manage. “Or maybe the rest of the Institute staff.” 

“Why are we whispering?” asks Melanie, though she follows suit. “Is there something wrong with them?” 

“Well, they’re covered in eyes—” 

“Oh, _eurgh—”_

“And it looks like they’re all fighting over how to pile up all the statements.” Two of them are literally rolling on the ground wrestling over one of the cassette tapes. One of them lets out an ear-splitting screech, which somehow sounds more like a tape being played backwards than something coming out of a human mouth. 

“I think maybe coming here was a mistake,” whispers Melanie faintly, echoing Georgie’s thoughts. 

“I think you’re right,” replies Georgie, trying to ease the door shut as quietly as possible. As she takes a step back, away from the door and into the corridor, she bumps into something. 

She doesn’t startle, because that particular response to surprise got burned out of her right along with the fear. She does, however, look over her shoulder, knowing exactly what she’s about to see. 

One of the creatures is staring right behind her, myriad blue eyes trained directly on her face. 

“Shit,” says Georgie, in a conversational tone. 

“What?” Melanie whispers, louder than before but still in an undertone. 

_HSSSSSSSS,_ goes the staticky not-voice of the creature. 

Melanie jumps a foot in the air and swears loudly. Luckily, the noise is mostly covered by another screech from the room beyond.

The creature, unfazed, cocks its head, and speaks—though from where, Georgie has no idea, as it lacks a mouth. “You have— _click—_ a secret.” The two phrases sound like pre-recorded bits of something longer; the intonation is strange and stilted, and changes dramatically on either side of the unmistakably mechanical sound in the middle. But more importantly, the creature is speaking in Jon’s voice. 

Georgie’s stomach sinks rapidly.

“Jon?” Melanie’s voice shakes. “Georgie—is that—” 

“No,” says Georgie. “Just one of the things from the archives. I don’t know how it got behind us—” 

There’s another _click._ “—tell me. I need to hear it. I need to record it,” says the creature, still in Jon’s voice. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” says Georgie. It doesn’t sound like there’s any significant movement from behind the door, but she keeps her voice low anyway. The creature is small and skinny, but Georgie suspects that getting into a physical fight with it would still be a bad idea, and she definitely doesn’t want to get swamped by the rest of them. 

“Please, Georgie, I just need... I need to record it.” The sick feeling in the pit of Georgie’s stomach, growing ever since she first heard the creature speak, intensifies sharply. She remembers hearing Jon say those exact words to her, more than a year and a half ago. 

“No,” says Georgie, wishing she could go back in time and say the same thing to Jon. “We’re leaving. Melanie—” Melanie follows as Georgie edges carefully around the creature, heading back the way she came. 

It turns to keep looking at her, though it doesn’t make any move to impede her progress. “Tell me.” _Click._ “Tell me.” _Click._ “TELL ME!”

A vaguely familiar pressure starts to build up in Georgie’s throat, a tingling like pins and needles. Almost pleasant at first, but rapidly building up to a searing pain. And with a sudden, sick feeling, Georgie realizes what she’s about to say. 

“Statement of Georgina Barker— _click—”_ And then the creature starts to speak with her voice instead. “—In desperation I slammed my hands over my ears and shut my eyes, willing myself not to hear, not to understand. As far as defences go, it was basically nothing, I still think it saved me, at least a bit. I still heard the words—” 

When she had said those words to Jon, what feels like a lifetime ago, they hadn’t had much effect on her. She’d had over a decade to forget the feeling of that awful moment of realization, to bury it under denial and avoidance. Telling Jon what had happened had dredged it back up, a little, and the ensuing nightmares had ensured that didn’t get re-buried. But even then, she’d been careful to think around the words, not let them linger in her mind. This time, though. As she’s pinned in place like an insect on a card by the stare of the thing before her, she decides that this time, she’ll say it like she means it. 

The words pour out of her, forceful as water over a waterfall, inevitable as the end of the universe: 

“The moment that you die will feel exactly the same as this one.” 

The creature blinks, all at once. And despite the fact that it has no recognizable face, no brow or nose or mouth with which to make expressions, Georgie is certain that she can see raw terror in its many eyes. And then it crumples to the ground like a marionette with cut strings. 

Georgie doesn’t touch it. But she knows that if she did, if she listened for breath or tried to take its pulse, she would find it stone dead. 

She can’t quite make herself feel anything about that. This strikes her as a bad sign.

Belatedly, she realizes that Melanie let go of her hand during the confrontation. She turns to see Melanie curled up in a fetal position against the wall, hands pressed tight over her ears. To Georgie’s relief, she’s visibly breathing. And she’s—humming? 

Georgie doesn’t recognize the tune; it’s not a song she knows. Melanie must have started humming the first thing that came to mind in order to block out what was coming. Maybe she had been able to sense the danger in a way Georgie wasn’t capable of anymore. In any case, they need to move, so Georgie gently tugs at Melanie’s arm. “Melanie? Melanie, it’s okay, it’s done—” 

Melanie’s eyelids open. She seems to stare at Georgie with her clear plastic prosthetics, and there’s something not quite right in her expression. But then the tension snaps, and Melanie pitches forward into Georgie’s arms, trembling. “I didn’t hear,” she says, voice oddly raspy. “When you—it—said that you covered your ears, I knew I had to do the same—” 

“Good,” says Georgie against the top of Melanie’s head. “I’m…” How should she feel about that? Oh, yes. “I’m glad you didn’t have to hear it.” 

* * *

They leave the Institute immediately, by unspoken agreement. The creatures in the archives seem to have missed the confrontation, too busy fighting amongst themselves, but Georgie is already exhausted from repeating her story once; if she has to do it again, she’s sure she’ll collapse. Melanie seems shaken as well, though she’s obviously trying not to show it. 

They have a near-miss with danger on the way home. There’s someone—a woman, sounds like—yelling out in the fog outside the Institute, but when Georgie dutifully turns her feet towards her, Melanie yanks her backwards. 

“Georgie, I’m scared.” 

“It’s all right,” says Georgie, trying to keep the exhaustion out of her voice. “I’ll stick with you, it’ll be fine—” 

“No!” Melanie scowls. “I’m _scared._ Of whatever that is. More than the fog, even. I think it’s a trap.” 

“Are you sure?” In the distance, the woman yells again. 

“Either listen to me or don’t,” snarls Melanie, angrier than Georgie has heard her sound in months. Then she takes a deep breath, rubs her face with her free hand. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I—I had to get angry, a bit, in order not to hear what happened earlier. It—it was the only thing I could think of to do.” 

Georgie remembers the unfamiliar song, and feels slightly ill. Hmmm. Better than nothing, she supposes. “It was the right thing to do,” she says after a brief hesitation. “Though—you’re not going to—” 

“No,” says Melanie sharply. Then more gently. “No. I don’t want to go back to the way I was before. I’m honestly not sure if I can, now the bullet’s gone, but I don’t want to find out. I’ll probably need to rest up a day or two. Maybe go back over some of my old exercises from my therapist.” 

The woman’s voice is much closer this time, as it drifts through the fog. “Where are you? Come on, I can hear you! Come out! Come on out, eyeball scum!” 

“We should go,” says Melanie tightly, voice barely above a whisper. 

* * *

By the time they make it back to the flat, Georgie is feeling more—well, _more,_ but Melanie is despondent. “We didn’t learn anything!” she groans from where she’s collapsed onto the bed. 

“Maybe we don’t need to,” says Georgie. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Well...” Georgie bites her lip, thinking. “Just... what would knowing the specifics actually do for us? Sure, it would be great to be able to undo the whole mess, but short of that? You’re pretty familiar with this stuff already, and we both have plenty of practical experience after the last few days. So maybe we can just—try and muddle along. I mean, think about it. I’m pretty sure we did more to help fix things in the first six hours of this whole mess, just by going door to door telling people that they weren’t alone, than we have in the last week trying to find answers.” 

“I guess you’re right.” Melanie sighs, and nods. “Besides, if we don’t fix this, who will?” 

“Well, I’m sure Jon is trying to throw himself on his own sword again,” says Georgie, weariness sharpening the old frustration.

“Do you really think he’s still alive?” asks Melanie. 

Georgie stares at her. “Wh—why do you think he’s not?” 

Melanie gestures vaguely as if to indicate _just look around you._

“He survived that coma, didn’t he?” says Georgie, suddenly off-balance. The idea that Jon might just be _gone_ hadn’t even occurred to her. “Plus, I mean. There’s the whole… eyeball thing. That has the Institute written all over it. Right?”

“Yeah, it does,” says Melanie. “That’s what I’m worried about.”

The pieces slide into place. “You think that he was involved, and it k—it killed him.”

“More like…” Melanie sighs, hands clasped tight. “More like, this whole mess is exactly what he went on a suicide mission to prevent, with the Unknowning. I can’t imagine that he would have stood by if he’d known about it. And given the Eye? I don’t think it’s likely he could’ve _not_ known.” Her brow furrows, a realization coming on. “I wonder if it had anything to do with whatever it was he tried to involve me in, last month.”

Georgie sits down next to Melanie, close enough to be leaned on but not close enough to crowd her. “God. I wish he could just… just let someone else handle _anything,_ just _once,_ without making them dive in as deep as he does.”

Melanie laughs then, a quiet sound that slides into a sigh, and presses her shoulder against Georgie’s. “Yeah. Would’ve surprised me if he could’ve managed that, though. Sounds like it was sort of always the way he was. And also…” Her jaw works slightly as she thinks something over. At length, she adds, “Being in the Institute, in the archives, it was… weird. Like, supernaturally weird. It was _way_ too easy to forget that… that the rest of the world existed, I guess.”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean… there was all this _stuff_ about secret world-ending rituals, and monsters, and evil fear god-things. After a while, it was like… it really, _really_ felt like it was just us holding it all back from the rest of the world, you know?” Melanie sighs. “My therapist said something about it, near the beginning, but I didn’t understand what she was even _talking_ about until after I quit. Everything felt _so_ urgent, _all the time,_ but it… _wasn’t._ I mean, sure, sometimes it was, but the world got on fine for literally all of history. Well. Until now.”

They both sit and digest that for a minute. Then Melanie scoffs. “I bet Elias picked out people who would fall into that trap on purpose. Prick.”

Georgie’s eyebrows raise involuntarily. “D’you really think he had that much to do with how Jon was acting?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” says Melanie. She rubs her eyelids absentmindedly. “He definitely knew everything that was going on, at least until we got rid of him. And he could—not use mind control, exactly? But I wouldn’t put it past him to be able to make people think what he wanted with more than just words.”

“From what you told me,” says Georgie, “it doesn’t sound like Elias was there when Jon started to hurt other people in earnest. The live statements, I mean, and... well. I don’t mean to tell you how to feel, but…”

Melanie rubs one hand over her leg, above the two overlapping scars Georgie has seen more than a few times. “Obviously he got up to some messed-up stuff, even aside from what he did to me. I mean, of _course.”_

“But?”

“I would’ve killed someone,” says Melanie flatly. “I would’ve killed someone, and it would’ve been because I decided to do it, because I _wanted_ to. The whole bullet mess was terrible, from beginning to end, but honestly? I’m more grateful he didn’t let me become a murderer than I am angry that he hurt me. I mean. He did still hurt me, and I _am_ still angry. But at least I got a chance to get better.” She rubs a hand over her forehead, suddenly seeming exhausted. “And I dunno whether he deserved it, in the end, or whether he would’ve taken the chance if he’d had it. But I wish _someone_ could’ve done the same for him. Maybe not me, but someone.”

“Yeah,” says Georgie quietly. “I wish that too.”

Later, as Melanie sleeps, Georgie's thoughts churn. _It would have been because I decided to do it._ She wonders how deep he’d already been when he came to see her, that first time.

She wouldn't have changed her decision to step back, she finally concludes. She'd had good reason to put some distance there, to protect herself and Melanie. But it still hurts to think about the friend she used to have, before everything went wrong, and she wishes, however hopelessly, that she could have that friend back.

There’s no fixing the past, she decides, as she drifts off. The only thing to do is try and fix the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: body horror (too many eyes), cramped spaces, references to canon-typical Jon’s low-key suicidal behavior, canon-typical angsty interpersonal tension
> 
> Want to leave a comment, but don't know what to write? Tell me your favorite line, or what you think that woman in the fog was up to!


	7. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Daisy gives Jon pause, Martin gives Jon reassurance, and Jon gives Martin a heart attack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [NevillesGran](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NevillesGran) for beta reading this chapter!
> 
> Content warnings (and art!!!) in the end notes.
> 
> (Edit 5/15/20: HA. I am deeply amused by how much one of the exchanges in this chapter has been rendered OOC by recent canon. I wrote and posted it before April 2020, so if it seems directly counter to the (excellent and satisfying, imo) character development in early s5, that's why. I don't currently intend to change it so that it's canon compliant, but I'll put a note up here if I change my mind.)

It’s hard for Martin to tell whether other people are getting better at safely navigating this new world over time, or whether they’re just passing through more densely populated areas as they get further south. He almost asks Jon, but stops himself; idle curiosity isn’t enough to warrant the use of Jon’s abilities. He suspects that it’s a combination of both, though.

Though there are some other cars on the roads now, there isn’t enough traffic to noticeably slow them down, and the roads get clearer the further they go. With Jared’s (probably stolen) car, they’re able to cover a lot of distance very quickly, even if Jon keeps taking long detours. He admits, when Martin asks, that not all of them are strictly necessary; he’s trying to stay in the least dangerous areas possible, even if faster routes are only marginally more perilous. 

“I just thought,” he says, hands shifting uneasily on the steering wheel, “since things don’t seem to be actively deteriorating any further, it was better to take the extra time so that y—so that _we’d_ be safer, instead of trying to get back to London as fast as possible.” He glances over at Martin, clearly anxious for his approval. (Martin, once again, suppresses his knee-jerk impulse to tell Jon to watch the road. Even with his head turned to the side, Jon has more eyes pointed out the windshield than the average driver.) 

Martin smiles at him, and he relaxes a little. “Good plan,” says Martin. “Thank you.” 

Jon turns to face forward again, but one of the eyes near his ear peeks at Martin through its long eyelashes, almost bashfully. Despite himself, Martin finds it cute.

With Jon’s cautious planning, the trip takes three days. The only real excitement comes on the day after they get the car. They’re in the middle of the roadway, driving fast, when Jon’s eyes suddenly turn glassy and unfocused, and his hands go slack on the wheel.

“Jon?” says Martin, concerned. Then, when Jon doesn’t answer, “Jon! Can you hear me? What’s going—?”

“Sorry,” Jon gasps, eyes focusing and unfocusing. “Let me—let me get off the road—”

Jon pulls over to the side of the road and kills the engine, but makes no move to get out of the car. Instead, he just sits and stares at nothing, stock-still and silent, in the driver’s seat. 

“Jon?” Martin asks again, fighting back the panic that threatens to overwhelm him. 

“I’m all right,” says Jon. “It’s just—it’s Daisy—”

“Did Basira find her again?” asks Martin, thinking of the brief encounter Jon had related to him two days ago.

“No—well, yes, but—I think—yes. Jude Perry is there too,” says Jon. His right hand flexes on the wheel, and Martin swallows hard. He watches in silence as Jon’s eyes flicker side to side, watching the conflict play out, too far away to do anything.

After what feels like a lifetime, Jon’s eyelids flutter closed, and he slumps as a sigh of relief escapes him. “It’s all right,” he says. “Daisy is—she’s out of danger. And she’s— _herself_ again. Basira’s fine too.”

“Oh,” says Martin, processing that. “And Jude?”

“Gone,” says Jon with a faint grimace, and doesn’t elaborate further.

Martin isn’t sure how he feels about Daisy—he didn’t know her as well as Jon did, after the Unknowing—but she and Jon were clearly friends by the end, and Jon’s relief is plain. Martin decides to be pleased that Jon is happy, and doesn’t ask for more details. The news that the last remnant of the Lightless Flame is gone, though—that’s a _proper_ bit of good luck. 

* * *

Every time the tank starts running low, Jon pulls into a petrol station. A lot of them don’t have working pumps anymore, but every time, there’s someone willing to part with a can of petrol in exchange for some of the food from their supplies—Jared had packed the car with an astonishing number of boxes of protein bars, so they’re not lacking for quantity even if they are lacking a bit for variety—or occasionally a staggering amount of cash out of the remains of the envelope of Peter’s money that Martin had brought north. 

But their luck has to run out sometime, and as they fuel up again about an hour outside of London (this station, by some miracle, still has two pumps that work), Jon says apologetically, “We should have enough to get into the city, but we probably won’t be able to drive out again. Most the stations are out of petrol, and those that aren’t are asking more than we can spare.” 

“How has everything not devolved into total chaos?” asks Martin, not really expecting an answer. “I mean, no petrol, no trucks, right? Where’s the food coming from?” 

“Well, part of the reason there’s a petrol shortage is that the trucks are using most of it,” says Jon, offhand. He sounds a bit more subdued as he continues, “And also... Well. The food isn’t getting eaten as fast, now.” He fidgets uncomfortably where he’s leaning against the car. 

Martin spends a few seconds wondering what he means before abruptly wishing he hadn’t. “How many?” he asks, voice soft and horrified. 

Jon’s shoulders hunch, and he has a slightly hunted look as he glances up at Martin. “Erm,” he says. “If you don’t mind—I’d rather, ah, I’d rather not—” 

“Oh!” Martin winces. “Oh, of course not, I shouldn’t have asked, sorry.” 

“It’s quite all right,” says Jon hastily, sounding apologetic, for some reason. “There’s a variety of reasons for the surplus, anyway, so it’s not as bad as it sounds. If you—if you really want to know—”

“Jon,” says Martin, as sternly as he can manage. Jon stops talking, and allows Martin to tuck him gently against his side. “Remember what I said last week?” 

Jon nods against Martin’s shirt, and both of them are quiet until the pump stops. 

A few minutes later, when they’ve settled back into the car for the final leg of their trip, Jon hesitates before putting the keys into the ignition. Martin’s about to ask what’s on his mind when he suddenly blurts out, “I have to tell you something.”

Martin’s stomach sinks in apprehension. “What is it?”

Jon swallows. “I have—better control over what I know, now. Things used to just sort of pop into my head whether I wanted to know them or not, but now it’s like—I can feel the knowledge pushing at me, and reach for it or not as I want. Not always, though. It still sometimes happens unconsciously. Usually only things that I _really_ want to know, though.” He wrings his hands. Clearly, there’s more to what’s bothering him.

“Like what?” 

“Well...” Jon bites his lip, looking guilty. “Sometimes I can tell what you’re thinking. Not like in a, in an I-can-hear-your-every-thought kind of way,” he adds hastily. “It’s just that, sometimes, when it’s quiet, or when you change the subject in the middle of a conversation, I’m curious for a second, and then...” He sighs. “And then I _know.”_ He peeps up at Martin out of the corner of one eye. “I’m sorry. I know it’s—invasive, and awful. I’ve been trying to make it stop, but I haven’t been able to yet. If I knew how, I would.” He swallows again, hard. 

Martin sits there a minute, taking it in. He knows what he should say, and he knows what he wants to say, and the two duke it out inside his brain until what he wants finally wins. He gently pulls one of Jon’s hands out of his lap and winds their fingers together. 

“Honestly, I can’t really say I’m surprised?” says Martin. “I hadn’t exactly thought about it before, but, well, it makes sense, doesn’t it?” 

Jon laughs, but it’s not a happy sound. “Of course it does. Why should anyone close to me expect something as far-fetched as the privacy of their own thoughts?” His bitter words make Martin’s lungs ache, and he squeezes Jon’s hand again. It doesn’t seem to relax him, though; if anything, Jon is more tense than before. 

“Jon, I’m not upset with you,” says Martin.

“You should be,” Jon snaps. Martin can just barely see a tear drip down his far cheek. 

“Well,” says Martin, with deliberate obstinacy, “I’m not. No,” he cuts off Jon’s attempt to speak again. “No. Just tell me: how long have you known you can do this?” 

“I wasn’t sure until yesterday,” Jon mumbles. “You were eating dinner, and you didn’t like the protein bars, but you were thinking at least they were better than peaches. I realized that you weren’t making a face or anything—I didn’t have any way of knowing that the food was bothering you. But I did.” He sniffles, the corners of his mouth turning down. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to tell you.”

Martin resolutely ignores the answering ache in his own throat. “You’ve probably gotten some pretty embarrassing things from me, then,” he says. When Jon doesn’t reply, he says, “Yes or no?” 

“I didn’t think they were all that embarrassing,” says Jon. “But yes, I think I’ve caught something once or twice that you deliberately chose not to bring up.”

“And you’ve probably heard—or picked up on, or whatever—some fairly unkind thoughts as well,” says Martin. “I haven’t exactly been at my best the past two weeks. Or beforehand, honestly.” 

“Yes,” says Jon, voice barely above a whisper. 

“And are you going to make fun of me for those? Are you going to hold it against me, that I sometimes think things that I would never say aloud?” 

“Wh—No! Of course not!” Jon sounds shocked at the very idea. 

“And if you want—or even need—to know something from me,” says Martin, careful and deliberate, knowing that this is the most important of his questions, “will you go snooping, or will you ask me to tell you?” 

This time, Jon’s answer is deliberate and measured. “I’ll ask. I don’t want—I _won’t_ turn into… into _him._ Not if I have any choice in the matter.”

“Then,” says Martin, wrapping his other hand around Jon’s, “I’m not going to be upset with you over something you can’t help. I trust you, Jon. I know you’re about to tell me that I shouldn’t, but I think you’ve just proven that you’re trying your very best not to hurt me with this.” Jon closes his mouth, and Martin reaches up to brush a few fingertips against his cheek. Jon leans into his hand. “I can’t promise that I won’t occasionally get frustrated,” says Martin softly. “But I will promise that if I do, I’ll ask you for space, or, I dunno, ask you to focus on something else for a while. Okay?” Jon nods against his palm. “And will you promise to tell me if anything changes?” 

“Yes, I promise,” says Jon quietly, his words buzzing against Martin’s skin. He glances up, eyes still wet. “How in the _world—_ I’d, I’m curious to know how you are so unbothered by all of this.” 

“All of what?” 

_“This_. All the Fears. Me and my _spooky powers.”_ Jon spits out the hated phrase as though it tastes foul. 

“I’m hardly unbothered by the Fears, Jon,” says Martin with a laugh that is, if not entirely mirthless, still decidedly lacking in humor. “Though having you with me helps in more ways than one. As for the whole mind-reading thing...” He takes a deep breath. In for a penny, in for a pound. “I mean, I’m well aware I _should_ be. I do realize that I’m not making the best decisions, in an objective sense. But... knowing that I _shouldn’t_ want someone else being privy to my thoughts doesn’t _actually_ mean I feel that way. Not when it’s you.” 

“What—I’d like to know what you mean,” says Jon. 

Martin replaces the hand on Jon’s face back around his wrist. “When you told me to See you, I got a better idea of what you feel than anyone has a right to know about anyone else,” he says. “And also, honestly, a better idea of what’s going on in my own head than most people have? But that’s beside the point. Which is—” He sighs, frustrated by the clumsiness of his words. He’s reminded, abruptly, of the feeling when a poem just _won’t come out_ the way he wants it to.

Jon shifts their linked hands to lace their fingers together, and Martin finds his voice again. “I can’t—I can’t do this without you. I would be dead ten times over if you hadn’t been here to help me. Even if the literal apocalypse hadn’t happened, I would be lost in the fog without you.” Jon winces, but Martin soldiers on. “And I do realize that’s not exactly the most—stable, I guess?—way to live. But I _know_ you won’t leave, not anytime soon, not willingly. And even though I know that it’s because you’d be just as lost without me—even though we’re only _here_ because both of our lives got pretty thoroughly derailed—” He shares a rueful smile with Jon. “I’m still happy that we’re together, and that you’re not going to get—bored of me, I guess. Even if the reasons _why_ are bad.”

Jon tightens his grip, rubbing his thumb in a circle on the back of Martin’s palm, and brings his other hand over as well. “I... I know what you mean,” he says quietly. 

“It’s the same with this,” says Martin. “Obviously I realize that it’s not ideal that you’re able to know what I’m thinking? But it doesn’t actually upset me that much. I don’t have any secrets I’m trying to keep from you, and I trust you not to try and use anything you find out against me. If you get more insight into the inner workings of my mind than is strictly natural, well—” The corner of his mouth twitches up. “Well, then that’s just fair, isn’t it? I know you a bit better than most people normally could, too.” 

Jon nods, expression soft. “I suppose that’s true.” 

Martin had a vague idea of bringing up another example to really reinforce his point, but as he’s about to speak, he realizes that the point he’s about to make is about marriage. Specifically, about how he still has fantasies of getting married, despite knowing painfully well that that kind of commitment can have incredibly toxic fallout for both partners (and hypothetical related third parties) if, to give a _totally random_ example, one partner isn’t emotionally equipped to handle the other partner’s long-term severe illness. 

By some miracle, Martin shuts up before he can humiliate himself. It’s not like it’s exactly practical to plan a wedding in the middle of an apocalypse. Not to mention the fact that before everything had gone wrong, Martin had, half-jokingly but really not at all jokingly, asked Jon for a ring, like a _complete fool,_ rings are impractical and kind of outdated anyway, and where is Jon supposed to even _find_ a ring in this whole mess—

“Um,” says Jon. 

Martin freezes. When he gets the courage to peep up at Jon’s face, there’s a faint reddish tinge to his skin from his hairline to the collar of his shirt. 

“I,” says Jon. “Um. It. Um. It just, um.” He swallows. “I wasn’t—I _wasn’t_ trying to know, I just—” 

Martin puts his face in his hands and groans loudly. He can feel his ears turning red. “Well, at least you can get some practice at not making fun of me when I think silly things,” he tells his palms. 

“I won’t make fun of you for anything you think,” says Jon seriously, and Martin feels a little better. But then Jon says, “But it isn’t silly to want. Um. That,” and Martin’s guts start doing some very impressive acrobatics. 

Deep breath in, deep breath out. “It’s the end of the world, Jon,” he finally manages to choke out. “I think we have more important things to think about.” 

“It isn’t silly to have wants,” says Jon stubbornly. “And you don’t need to give up on things that make you happy just because there are bad things happening around you.” 

Martin has to take several more deep breaths before his heart migrates from his throat back down into his ribcage. “Can we—” he croaks. Jon offers him a bottle of water. “Can we,” Martin says once his voice is working again, “can we continue this once we’re settled for the night? It’s just—it’s a bit _much,_ and I’d rather be somewhere more comfortable? And I think it’s going to get dark soon, and it would be really nice not to have to sleep in the car again.” 

“Oh! Of course,” Jon says, also blushing, and fumbles for the keys. As he pulls back out onto the road, though, he takes Martin’s hand over the center console, a silent promise to finish the conversation once they get home. 

* * *

There is a new addition to the London skyline. 

Martin is sure he’s imagining it at first; surely, no building could ever reach such a height, nor balance upright on such a narrow base. Yet there it is: a tower, thin as a sewing needle from this distance, unimaginably delicate-looking, dwarfing the massive skyscrapers of central London. Martin can see a faint gleam on the very top, which somehow manages to sit dead center in front of the pupil of the Eye. 

Martin hastily looks away, resisting the urge to cover his face with his hands or his jacket or _something._

Now that they’re closer to their destination, Jon has a harder time finding ways around bad spots. More and more often, they pass through sudden stretches of darkness and tunnels much too small for comfort. Roundabouts and interchanges take far longer to navigate than they should; they seem to have all been taken over by either the Vast or the Spiral. One particularly egregious specimen seems to have been taken over by both, and has them driving in circles for nearly an hour. 

By the time they make it out and pull over, both of them are thoroughly shaken. They sit side by side in silence for a few minutes. The Eye’s bright iris is nearly occluded by the massive pupil, like an awful, inside-out parody of a sunset, or an enormous solar eclipse. Probably a little before six o’clock in the evening, then. 

“Martin, h—I’d like to know how you’re feeling,” says Jon eventually. 

“I’m all right,” says Martin. “That was a nasty one, though.” He glances back up at the impossible tower; he has a sneaking suspicion he knows where it sprouted. “That’s the Institute, isn’t it? Or it came from the Institute, anyway.” 

Jon nods. “It’s the panopticon tower of Millbank,” he says. “Except now, the whole world is the prison.” 

Martin can’t help a shiver. Jon reaches over and squeezes his hand. “We’re not going there right now, are we?” asks Martin. 

“No,” says Jon. “It’s full of... well, the Eye has had a... rather strange effect on the other employees. It’s not exactly safe now.” Martin thinks of all the other people who worked in the Institute, most of whom had no idea what they were getting themselves into, and winces. “Not to mention,” Jon continues, “that we should probably come up with a plan rather than just marching in and demanding for Magnus to put all the Fears back.” Martin snorts under his breath. Jon puts the key back into the ignition, but he doesn’t turn the car on. “Is it—I was planning to go to your flat. Unless, er, unless you have any objections.” 

“I don’t have any objections,” says Martin, fighting a smile. There’s almost certainly something deeply wrong with him, that he finds Jon’s awkward, impersonal not-questions charming, but he doesn’t particularly care. 

“It’s—well,” says Jon. “There are going to be some, some more bad spots. There’s a lot of Corruption near your flat, but your apartment block is Lonely.” Martin’s stomach drops, but Jon keeps going before he can suggest camping out in the car again instead. “I think—I think if I stop limiting my sight for a little while, I might be able to take over the Lonely spot and turn it into Beholding instead. It’s definitely not something I should do a lot, but since it’s your flat, I thought… If—if you think that would be better, I mean.” 

“Yes, please do that,” babbles Martin. He’s so caught up in startled relief that it takes him a minute to realize the problem. “Wait. What about all of the other people who live in my building? Shouldn’t we, I dunno, check in with them first?” 

Jon just looks at him silently, a sad, apologetic expression on his face. 

“What, _all_ of them?” 

“Some might come back if the Lonely’s influence fades,” says Jon. “But... I think it might be too late for most of them.” 

Pity crawls up Martin’s throat, to lodge itself under his tongue. “Well, let’s do what we can, then,” he finally manages. 

* * *

The trip through London is harrowing. Jon hadn’t been entirely truthful when he had said that there would be “some bad spots”—it’s more like there are some vaguely okay parts in a sea of awful. The traffic, absent for so long, returns with a vengeance, but all the other cars are driven by mannequins. The bridge over the Thames seems to stretch for miles, the city only just visible on the horizon at either end. And to add insult to injury, none of the street signs are readable; they spout gibberish that Martin’s brain refuses to register as strange until he’s trying to figure out where they need to go. He’s completely turned around after five minutes; it’s a good thing Jon seems to know where he’s going. 

Just as Martin starts to recognize the landmarks of his neighborhood, Jon directs him to seal all the windows and turn off the car’s outside air circulation. 

“Martin, I need you to remember something,” he says, as the light outside goes ominously green. “The Corruption—it’s going to try and get in your head, it’s going to make you think that it loves you. But it doesn’t, and I need you to remember that, all right?” 

“What?” Martin is having trouble focusing on Jon’s words. He wants to keep listening to the music coming from outside instead. It’s so pretty. 

“The Corruption, it’s going to try and make you think that it wants you, that you belong with it. But you don’t, it’s just going to hurt you, and you can’t give in. All right?” 

Martin doesn’t know what Jon is talking about. There isn’t any corruption here. The light coming through the windows is green and lovely, and the music is so sweet. He puts a hand on the handle of his door. 

“Martin? _Martin!_ Martin, _please!”_ A hand lands on Martin’s arm, trying to pull him away from the handle, but Jon has never been particularly strong, so it’s easy to resist.

It does give him pause, though. Jon is so upset. Why is he upset? Martin feels as though he’s missing something. Jon is insisting that the thing outside his door wants to hurt Martin. But that’s probably just Jon being his normal suspicious self. Why would it want to hurt him? It loves him. It loves him _so much._ Jon has probably never even considered that love can also come from inside, from the millions of tiny creatures that call Martin their home—

Wait a minute. 

“ _Eurgh!_ Oh—oh, _Christ,_ that’s so horrible—” Martin gasps for breath, snatching his hand back off the door handle as though it had burned him.

“Martin?” 

“I’m fine,” Martin gasps. “As soon as it got into the—the crawling bugs thing—I snapped out of it, but it had me for a minute—”

“But you’re all right now.” Jon’s voice is still tight and anxious, and it sounds as though the effort of not turning that sentence into a question is causing him physical pain. 

“Not really,” Martin groans. “I don’t think I’ll fall for that same trick twice, but I—I don’t like it here. Can we just—can we get through as fast as possible? Please?” 

“Of course,” says Jon, and stomps on the accelerator. 

When they finally burst through a curtain of fungal spores and into a horribly familiar chill, Martin is a total mess. He has managed not to willingly let the awful rot feast on him, and that’s about the end of his accomplishments. He’s been half-sobbing steadily for at least five minutes. Visions of Jane Prentiss flicker behind his eyelids, that steady knocking on the door of his flat ringing in his ears. He can’t help but picture himself turned into a hive like she was, buzzing with that consuming, killing song of love, and the fact that there’s a part of him that aches for it makes him retch. 

The minute they’re clear, Jon kills the engine, unfastens his seatbelt, and climbs over the center console into Martin’s lap. Martin holds on with both hands, the swirl of disjointed, panicked images still running through his head. 

_So this is what it’s been like for everyone else,_ he thinks, dizzy with gratitude that Jon has been so careful about navigating around the dangers in their path. 

At long last, his racing heart slows down to something approaching normal. It’s only then that he realizes that the chill had dissipated while he was panicking, to be replaced by the skin-crawling feeling of being watched by a thousand dispassionate eyes. 

Martin glances down at Jon, but Jon isn’t looking at him. Or—Jon’s eyes are pointed at him, but they’re closed. A dozen glowing spots on his face mark the places where the radiance of his gaze is blunted behind eyelids. Which means that the thing watching him is—

The Eye is massive and inescapable at the best of times, stretching from horizon to horizon, the enormous pupil easily ten times the diameter of the missing moon. But now, the Eye is—well, not _bigger,_ but somehow even more obtrusive. Before, it dominated the sky; now, it looks close enough to reach out and touch. 

And it’s _looking at him._

Martin takes a few breaths steadily in and out. It’s not going away anytime soon, so he may as well try and get used to it. “Are you ready to go inside?” he asks Jon. 

“Lead the way,” says Jon, eyes still firmly shut. 

* * *

They’re lucky that the border between Corruption and Lonely was so close to Martin’s apartment block, as neither of them are in much of a state to drive. Despite the banishment of the chill, Martin’s building is still eerily silent as they head upstairs, Jon managing not to bump into anything despite keeping his eyes closed the entire time. 

Martin has to take a long shower before he’s fully able to put Prentiss and the fungus-choked streets from his mind. The hot water runs out after a while, and the feeling of being watched doesn’t abate even in his windowless bathroom, but he doesn’t care. When he finally emerges, shivering, Jon immediately takes his place, grumbling about the temperature through the door.

Martin curls up in his bed and stares at the wall, brain blank, too exhausted to do anything except _be._ He’s only roused from his daze when Jon sits down beside him, wearing a set of pyjamas obviously pilfered from Martin’s wardrobe.

“Do—I hope you don’t mind,” says Jon, fussing with the hem of his—Martin’s—shirt. “But it’s been a while since we were last able to wash anything, and that was my last clean shirt, so—” 

“Oh, no—I mean, of course that’s fine,” says Martin, somehow too tired to react properly to the sight of Jon in a pyjama shirt much too large for him. Jon just smiles, though, and tugs the sheets aside, slipping in and pressing close.

Martin rests his cheek on Jon’s sternum, and gradually feels himself come back to life. He shifts a little, getting more comfortable, and realizes all at once that Jon’s heart is hammering, and there’s a sheen of sweat on his throat and wrists. “Jon?” he mumbles, lifting his head up again. “Is something wrong?” 

“No,” says Jon. “I just—I’m just—I— _oh my god why is this so hard.”_ He rubs his face vigorously with both hands. 

“What is it?” Despite Jon’s assurance to the contrary, Martin still feels as though something ominous is hanging in the air between them. 

Jon seems to reach a decision, and pulls something small, square, and black from under the pillow. It has rounded corners and it’s a little bit shiny, like satin—

Then Martin realizes what Jon is pushing into his hand and about has a heart attack. 

_“Jon?”_ shrieks his disembodied soul. 

“I’ve been trying to find a time that wasn’t awful,” Jon mumbles, his glowing eyelids gone slightly pink from his blush. “But I don’t think I’m going to get one anytime soon. So.” 

“Ask me,” says Martin. He’s pretty sure his soul is still detached from his body. 

“I’m not sure I can without compelling an answer,” says Jon, which is not what Martin had asked to hear. 

“Don’t care,” he says. “Ask me.” 

“You already know what I’m going to say,” Jon grumbles, but his protest is half-hearted. He’s got a smile to match Martin’s, lips not quite managing to close over it. 

“I want to hear it,” says Martin, already sniffling. “Ask me? Please.” 

“You don’t even want to see the—” 

_“Jonathan Sims—”_

“Martin, will you marry me?” 

Martin immediately bursts into noisy, messy tears. “Yes,” he says, the word bursting from him like water from a broken dam. Then he says it again, and a third time, just because he can. “Yes—yes—of course I will, _yes—_ ” He’s helpless to stop himself from squeezing Jon against his chest and rocking him side to side like a child with a teddy bear, the still-unopened ring box clutched in one fist. At first, Martin thinks that Jon is just humoring him, but when he finally pulls back to look at Jon’s face, his cheeks are wet, too. 

Martin leans forward and kisses Jon, clumsy with the force of his emotions. It’s scratchier than usual, but nothing can interrupt the delight of this moment. “Thank you,” he says softly. 

“I think that’s my line,” says Jon, still blushing with impressive force. 

Martin snorts and leans forward to kiss him again, but then he remembers he hasn’t even looked inside the box yet and yelps. 

“Where did you even get a ring?” asks Martin, unable to stop himself from stroking the satin lid. 

“First town we came across, after... you know,” says Jon. “Gift from the woman whose husband I helped. She said she had a feeling I might need it. She had, ah, suspiciously bright eyes.” 

Martin has to steady himself before lifting the lid. The ring inside is silver, with a single round yellow stone. It’s big, but simple enough not to be ostentatious, and it looks like it will suit Martin’s large, heavy hand. He strokes the stone with a fingertip that shakes so badly he’s not sure how he’s meant to put it on. 

“Let me,” says Jon. He plucks the ring out of the box with one hand and takes Martin’s left hand in his other. Then he peeks up—gleaming eyes open only the barest slit, just enough for Martin to realize that Jon knows _exactly_ what he’s doing—and delicately slides it down to rest at the base of Martin’s left ring finger. 

Martin is nothing if not a hopeless romantic, so it surprises neither of them when he starts crying again. 

* * *

Martin’s nightmares are no worse that night, but they’re also no better. He wakes up the next morning with a fierce headache, dehydrated and slightly swollen in the face from all the tears. But there’s a ring on his finger, a cuddly fiancé in his bed, and a glass of water on his nightstand, and if he has to fix the world single-handedly in order to get a lifetime of mornings like this, then it will be worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (CW a scary eyeball) [This chapter has art!!!](https://ostentenacity.neocities.org/eye_skyline.jpg) I painted it a while back, when I first got the mental image of the Panopticon tower silhouetted against the Eye.
> 
> (And if that's not working, [here's a link to the Wayback Machine.](https://web.archive.org/web/20200307013423/https://ostentenacity.tumblr.com/post/611890418415747072/a-slightly-better-picture-of-the-painting-i-posted))
> 
> Content warnings: Martin’s sucky childhood, body horror (too many eyes, canon-typical Corruption)
> 
> Also, Jon & Martin have a talk about how the apocalypse and their connections to the Fears are affecting how their relationship works. I’m _not_ trying to portray it as an unhealthy relationship—they are both aware of the potential pitfalls, and are taking care to treat each other well—but I thought it was worth mentioning just in case.
> 
> Want to make my day? Tell me what part of this chapter was your favorite!


	8. Borrowed Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Daisy mounts a rescue, Basira’s quest comes to an end, and a rough time is had by all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [NevillesGran](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NevillesGran) for beta reading, and to the lovely people in the Magnus Writers discord for helping me workshop a particularly tricky passage!
> 
> Fun fact: the name of this chapter in my original outline is “angst crime #1.” Make of that what you will.
> 
> Content warnings in the end notes.

Two days after the encounter with Daisy, things finally come to a head. 

At long last, Basira has been making real progress. Either seeing Daisy with her own two eyes has made it easier to recognize the signs of her passage, or Basira’s new clarity of purpose is strengthening her abilities. She goes on long trips through the city, finding trails and hideouts left and right. The exhaustion still hits hard every time she chases down a hunch, but that’s what determination and shitty coffee are for. 

It’s getting easier, though. She hasn’t collapsed once since she decided, once and for all, that she was going to save Daisy. And she _will._ It won’t be long before Basira has mapped every last one of her hiding spots.

Basira has also discovered, over the last two weeks, that the dangers all around never seem to interfere with her when she’s focusing hard on her current goal. When she lets a task eclipse all other thoughts and considerations, the rest of the world fades away, taking the worst of the fear with it. 

So today, while she follows Daisy’s two-hour-old footprints through a patch of the Dark, she doesn’t realize she’s walking straight into trouble until she nearly bumps into it. 

From somewhere ahead in the gloom, there’s the familiar faint _click_ of a recorder turning itself on. It takes another few moments for the realization to penetrate Basira’s focus: _it’s the wrong time of day for that._

Basira looks up, straight into the face of a woman she doesn’t know. 

The woman is short and heavyset, with her deep black hair chopped short and uneven. Her clothes are tattered, and at first Basira thinks that’s the reason why her muscular arms are exposed to the early November chill. Then the woman scowls, face contorting with fury, and Basira realizes several things in rapid succession. 

First, the woman’s jacket isn’t shredded; rather, she’s not wearing one in the first place. Second, there’s a hot, dry wind blowing from behind her, carrying the stink of wax and burning metal. Third, the unnatural darkness surrounding the two of them is receding, bit by bit, though the woman isn’t carrying a light of any kind. And finally, there’s something wrong with her skin. 

“You’re not the Archivist,” snarls the woman who must be Jude Perry, and reaches for Basira with a waxy, too-flexible hand. 

Basira yelps and stumbles back several steps. By some miracle, she manages to stay on her feet. She didn’t even consider that there might be hostile avatars aside from Trevor and Julia that could give her trouble; she had been too caught up in her goal to see the pitfalls in her way. _Stupid,_ she chastises herself silently, _stupid, stupid—_

“Where is he?” Jude snaps. There’s a strange hissing, crackling undertone to her voice. It must be a recent development; between that and the way her face seems to melt and reform itself every time her expression shifts, there’s no way that she would have been able to go about in public without drawing dangerous amounts of attention to herself. 

Jude does actually seem to be waiting for an answer, though, as she pursues Basira backwards down the sidewalk at a walking pace, not bothering to try and close the distance between them. Basira doesn’t run, because she knows that Jude could catch up without trying. Maybe if she makes herself useful, she thinks in a panic, she can make it out of this in one piece. 

“I don’t know,” says Basira truthfully. “I haven’t seen him in weeks. Haven’t even heard from him since—well—” 

“Since he mucked everything up for the rest of us, you mean?” Jude is now nearly incandescent with rage. “I knew I should have killed him when I had the chance. He and the old lady were nothing but trouble!” She makes another lazy swipe at Basira, but Basira again just manages to dodge out of the way. “And now _you’re_ causing trouble, too. I could _feel_ that there was a Beholding spy around here somewhere. But after all this time looking, it turns out it’s not even the Archivist.” A cruel smile splits her face. “Guess I’ll just have to take you out of the picture first.” 

Basira remembers the way Jon had screamed on the recording of his conversation with Jude, and has to fight down a wave of nausea before it swamps her. “Wait!” she gasps. “Why—how did he muck it up? The Desolation is in the world now—isn’t that what you wanted?” 

“What I wanted?” Jude’s mirthless laugh is the roaring of a bonfire. “We were going to _end the world in fire._ Not turn it into this—this pathetic, confused excuse for an apocalypse!” Her voice changes, taking on a tone of near-horror. “I fell into a pit of worms this morning. Worms! And they were _singing!_ I burned them all, of course, every single one, but after it was done, _I could still hear them!”_ Basira realizes with shock that Jude actually seems upset by the memory. “There’s no end to it! No matter how much destruction I cause, no matter how much _pain,_ the Crawling Rot will just come right back, singing about _belonging!_ It’s _foul.”_

Jude takes another swing at her, and Basira steps back again, but this time, she trips over something—a stray brick, maybe, or some similar bit of debris—and falls flat on her back, just barely avoiding cracking her skull on the concrete. Jude grins, waxy skin stretching horribly, smoky breath making Basira gag. “At least I can destroy _you,”_ says Jude, almost conspiratorially, and reaches for Basira’s throat. 

* * *

It isn’t safe to be outside when it’s light. Her eyes are best suited for darkness now, and the creatures that stalk the daylit world would swarm her if she exposed herself to them. But at night, the shadows hide her from their prying, dull eyes, and she can hunt in peace. 

The hunter with no name feels satisfaction as she chases the shapeshifter. It knows now that it is followed. This is good. Prey are always sweetest when they fear pursuit. 

Then the sky starts watching, and all the scents go strange. There is so much fear now—the hunter could glut herself on it, if she wanted; she could drink so deeply that in a hundred of her prey’s lifetimes she would still be sated. 

But it’s not as sweet, now that it isn’t secret and shadowed. And besides, she wasn’t the one to earn the bounty that surrounds her. If she partakes, the thing that spilled it will know, and it might decide to hunt _her_ for stealing from it. The hunter is formidable, but something strong enough to reap this much fear and then let it go to waste is not to be trifled with. 

Besides, her own quarry is still hiding. So the hunter ignores the terror that now perfumes the entire world, and chases it down.

It hadn’t been careful, the foolish thing. It had not realized, as she had, that abundance means competition. Its strange not-blood paints her teeth, and its screams fill her ears, and when it finally stops even twitching, the hunter leaves it in a broken heap and starts looking for her next quarry. 

The two small hunters are a challenge. They are not as strong as she is, but they are canny, and they have been hunters for longer than she has. But they are also distracted, searching for prey of their own, and so when they finally let down their guard, she is there. 

The fight makes her blood pump vital and hot through her strong body, but it’s also a disappointment, as the conclusion of the chase always is. The hunter remembers that once, she had a pack-mate who smelled of blood, who disdained the chase but reveled in the kill. It has been a long time since the hunter last saw that pack-mate, though. Something happened to her that snuffed out the bloody spark in her heart. 

Where is the hunter’s pack? She knows she used to have one. There was the blood-scented one, and the angry one (but only for a brief time, before he was gone), and the soft one who smelled almost like prey at first but later smelled of abandonment and empty places, and the little-but-dangerous one who had once _been_ prey but wasn’t anymore, who had eyes that were sharper than even the hunter’s claws. 

The little one had done something to her blood, she remembers. He had quelled it, with a tremendous weight of earth. 

Or maybe he’d pulled her out from under the weight? Either way, she’d been glad for it at the time. She’d _liked_ being cool-blooded and still. She can’t remember why. It seems incomprehensible now. 

But, most importantly of all, there had also been the clever one, who was strong and good even if she hadn’t liked the chase the way the hunter had. Does. Had. 

The hunter whines. Thinking about her past is hard and makes her skull ache. It’s so much easier to just think about _now,_ and _hunting,_ and _prey._ Sometimes she wonders if there was ever truly a _before,_ or if she was always as she is, a creature of the chase. 

But she’s pretty sure her pack was from _before,_ and she misses her pack. Maybe if she leaves her latest kill out in the open, they will find it and remember how good a hunter she is, and come back. So she conceals herself nearby and waits. 

Many hours later, her rest is disturbed by a sound from the little one. She remembers that sound! He hadn’t made it with his throat, but it was _his_ all the same. 

But when she finds where it’s coming from, all she discovers is a small, square thing that isn’t food or even alive. It is familiar, though. Maybe it belongs to the little one? No—it’s making his noise, which means it must be part of him. But then again, the rest of him isn’t nearby. So maybe it only _belongs_ to him after all. 

A dreamlike memory causes the hunter to carefully pick the little thing up and poke it on the end that has the— _buttons._ Yes, the buttons. That’s what they’re called. 

But the creature’s claws are too big, and she breaks the little thing by accident. The noise stops, and she realizes all at once that the little one is far away, so horribly far away, and her pack is scattered and she is _alone._ She wails and begins to creep back to her resting place to sulk. 

But then she catches the scent of the clever one, the _best_ one, who is so close by that the hunter could catch her without even trying. Full of joy, she starts towards the clever one’s—

—hiding place? 

The clever one is scared. That’s silly, because the hunter is the only dangerous thing here, apart from the clever one herself. But the clever one is no fool, so there must be a reason why her scent is making her smell uncomfortably like prey—

_Oh._

The hunter remembers that she used to be smaller, and that she didn’t used to have claws. She used to look more like the clever one, who she can see curled up and trembling and hiding. The wrongness is so _much_ that the hunter can almost smell it. 

So she goes back to the prey pile, trying to remember through the fuzziness and the pounding in her head. She can put a word here, so that the clever one will stop being afraid. 

She can’t remember many words, and remembering how to make them so that others can see them is even harder, but she can remember the one that would make things happen the way she wanted them to. So she puts that word next to the prey where the clever one can find it. Then, to make sure nobody else gets her message, she puts the word that means the clever one. She doesn’t think that the clever one will go and look while she’s still there, though—the clever one is _smart,_ the hunter thinks with a surge of satisfaction, even if she is scared over nothing. So she goes away for a while. 

When she comes back, the clever one is gone. Which is not what she wanted. The hunter makes all kinds of loud noises, which probably scares off all the prey nearby, but that doesn’t matter. She isn’t hungry. 

Even though her blood and bones ache to chase something, anything, the creature stays put. Maybe the clever one will come back and not be afraid anymore. Or maybe one of her other pack-mates will find her, even though it’s been a while and her prey isn’t as fresh anymore.

She only manages to stay put for one day. She’s a creature of the hunt, after all—holding still in the absence of a quarry is anathema to her. 

The hunter sniffs the air. The prey available to her are dizzying in their variety. She almost decides to go after one of the soft ones, but in the end, something doesn’t seem right about it. She wasn’t supposed to hunt the soft ones before, tempting as it was. She doesn’t think that rule still applies, but the memory of it is enough to ward her off. 

Maybe next time. 

When the smell of something hot and dangerous and _burning_ catches her attention, she knows she’s found her next quarry. This will not be an easy hunt, but she doesn’t want an easy hunt right now; the confusion and hurt churning up the inside of her head are frustrating, and she wants something distracting to make them go away. There will be time for easy hunts later. 

Unfortunately, the burning prey leaves its safe hiding place almost as soon as the hunter starts stalking it. The hunter shakes her head and lets out a whine of protest. Maybe she should teach the prey how to run, so that it can distract her properly. 

Or maybe she should just kill it now and look for a more difficult quarry afterwards. Yes, that sounds like a better idea. 

The hunter approaches the burning prey from behind. It isn’t on the lookout for possible danger, and so it doesn’t even notice the hunter is there. It’s very dark in this place, so dark that even the hunter’s keen eyes can’t make out more than vague shapes in the gloom, but that doesn’t matter. The hunter has never needed to see in order to find her prey. 

The burning prey is afraid. Good. The burning prey is not afraid of the hunter. Bad. What else could it be afraid of? The hunter is fast and strong and cunning, and while the burning prey has tricks of its own, it is no match for the hunter so long as she catches it unaware. 

What is nearby that could be strong enough to threaten the burning prey? The hunter sniffs the air. Here is the strange not-scent of the darkness, which makes the hunter uneasy, but only because it means she must be more vigilant than usual. It’s a faint, bland smell, but it’s deceptively powerful: it can mask even very strong scents if the hunter does not pay attention. But it is not dangerous enough to scare the burning prey, so the hunter discards it and sniffs again. There is a faint, sickly-sweet scent of rot as well. But it is undercut with the stench of ash, and so the hunter knows that the burning prey has vanquished the rot. And if it has beaten it, then it cannot still be afraid of it. So the hunter discards this smell also. 

The hunter inhales for a third time. There is another scent here, nearly covered by the dark and the odor of smoke and cinder. It smells good. _Familiar._ It smells like the clever one, almost. No. Not almost. 

It _is_ the clever one. 

The hunter leaps forward, snarling with rage. How _dare_ the burning prey try to hurt her pack! It is prey and prey is for _eating,_ not for hunting the hunters. She will tear it to shreds and feast on its terror, and then it will regret trying to hurt her pack because it will be _dead._

She catches its upper body in her teeth just as it reaches down towards the clever one, who is sprawled on the ground. It hurts her mouth with its fire, but that’s all right, because she hurts its head and neck and whole body with her teeth. And finally, finally, it is afraid of her. And then it is not afraid of anything. 

The hunter tosses aside the cooling lump of wax and goes to see if the clever one is injured. To her relief, she cannot smell any blood, and the clever one is standing upright, all of her limbs straight and not bent out of true. She’s looking at the hunter. That’s familiar. Her eyes are bright. Shining. That’s new. She’s looking at the hunter. She’s _looking_ at the hunter. 

That’s... new? 

And then the clever one begins to speak, and the hunter is pinned in place under the watching sky, and it does not hurt but she is being _eaten,_ why is the clever one doing this to her, it doesn’t make sense—

“—and I know you can recognize me,” cries the clever one, her eyes huge and piercing and _everywhere._ “I know you didn’t hurt me that day because you knew who I was, and you even wrote a message for me—” 

The hunter yowls. She can understand the words now, and her memories are coming back in a flood, and she doesn’t know who she is anymore, she doesn’t know—

“And I know I promised you,” says the clever one—says _Basira—_ ashen and shaking, but so strong that she could rip the hunter apart without even trying if she pushed just a little harder. “I promised you that when this was over I would kill you. But it’s not over yet, because you’re still here, and _you’re still Daisy!”_

* * *

Daisy collapses to the ground. 

Basira rushes over on legs that shake. Whatever it was she just did took a lot out of her, but it seems it took a lot more out of Daisy. Daisy, who is now human again, and who is making no move to get up. She lies twitching and whimpering, making tiny hurt noises, each one a knife in Basira’s gut. 

“Daisy?” she says, reaching out an unsteady hand to brush Daisy’s hair out of her eyes. Daisy is even more gaunt and lean than before, her skin is scuffed and covered in new scars, and there is an uneven starburst of bright new burns around her mouth. But it’s unmistakably _her._

“B’sira,” mumbles Daisy, only barely intelligible, and Basira nearly sobs with relief. 

“Come on,” says Basira, tugging weakly on Daisy’s hands. “Let’s get out of this. It’s not safe to stay here.” 

It takes most of the day to get back to Basira’s flat. They have to stop every few blocks to catch their breaths, and Daisy limps the whole way, slow and stiff on two legs. Basira hadn’t expected to have to nearly carry Daisy back home, though she probably should have. Getting up the stairs is a nightmare and a half, and Basira has to take off her heavy pack in order to make it more than a few steps. 

Basira hasn’t exactly been an ideal neighbor during this whole mess—short and snappish when people bother her, unwilling to spend more time than absolutely necessary away from her maps and notes. She knows she has a reputation as some sort of expert, but even so, people have mostly been leaving her be. So it’s a surprise when the teenage—or maybe twenty-something?—kid from downstairs picks up her pack and carries it after her, not even batting an eyelash at her grubby, clumsy cargo. 

Basira deposits Daisy, still only half-conscious, on her much-abused sofa, and reclaims her pack from the kid. They turn to leave, but Basira says, “Wait.” 

They turn back, a little wary. Probably wondering if she’s going to snap again like she did the first week, when they’d been bothering her for pest control advice every time she ran into them.

“Thanks,” says Basira stiffly. “And if the worms are still following you around, start carrying around a fire extinguisher. But also make some new friends. They like to pick on people who feel like they don’t belong.” 

“Oh, thanks,” says the kid, looking rather startled. Basira shuts the door on them as gently as she can stand, and then rushes back to Daisy. 

In the time between being laid out on the sofa and now, Daisy has drifted off to sleep. Basira considers trying to move her into the guest bedroom, but given how her entire body feels like an overcooked noodle at the moment, she thinks that’s likely to end in disaster. So instead, she stuffs a pillow under Daisy’s head, spreads a blanket over her, and leaves her to sleep. 

* * *

When Basira wakes up the next morning, her first thought is _why on Earth did I run a marathon yesterday,_ and her second thought is _Daisy!_

She hurries into the front room as fast as her stiff, sore legs can carry her. To her mixed relief and disappointment, Daisy is still out cold on the sofa. She hasn’t moved an inch since last night, but there is a tape recorder sitting primly on the arm of the sofa next to her head. Basira rolls her eyes, rewinds the tape, and pushes the play button. There’s about four minutes of Daisy snoring faintly, interspersed with a handful of soft, pained sounds. Nothing more. It’s longer than the recordings usually are, though. 

Basira wonders if Jon is happy that she’s saved Daisy. They did become friends, sort of, before the end. Maybe Jon is still human enough to be glad that the people he knows aren’t turning into monsters like him. 

Basira gets part of the way through fixing breakfast when she remembers with a start that she has to feed two people now. Huh. She takes a mental inventory of her food supplies. She’ll definitely have to take some more odd jobs, assuming Daisy will need time to recover. But that will mean that Daisy will be alone in the flat, which is probably not a good idea. 

Damn. This is turning out to be more complicated than she thought. 

Her thoughts are interrupted by Daisy padding into the kitchen. She moves more comfortably today than yesterday, and stands straighter, though that’s not saying much. “Hi, Basira,” she says, voice thin and raspy, eyes downcast. 

“Hi, Daisy,” says Basira. “Breakfast?” 

Daisy nods, accepts a spoon and a bowl full of oatmeal made lukewarm with an overabundance of milk, and sits down heavily at the kitchen table. She eats carefully, blowing on each bite before bringing the spoon to her lips, and drinks liberally from the glass of ice water Basira sets in front of her.

Basira scours her brain for something else to say, but comes up empty. They didn’t tend to talk much, even when they had still been with the police. But back then, the silences had been comfortable. This one feels unsettled, and Basira doesn’t like it. 

She’s not really sure what she had been expecting, but the words “thank you” had been in there somewhere, and she feels their absence keenly. And somewhere, in the back of her skull, she feels the doubt begin to seep in.

* * *

They drift quietly around each other for the rest of the day. Basira busies herself with the chores that she has been neglecting for the last two weeks, while Daisy takes a long shower, trims her overgrown nails, and scrounges up a few outfits out of Basira’s wardrobe. It’s a good thing they’re relatively close in build, if not height; Daisy has to un-hem almost everything she chooses, but at least they mostly fit afterwards. 

Finally, over dinner, Daisy pushes away her still half-full plate and says, “Basira? Can we... can we talk?” 

“Of course,” says Basira over the sudden sinking feeling in her gut. “What about?” 

“You broke your promise,” says Daisy quietly. 

Typical Daisy. She always goes straight for the throat. “I didn’t,” says Basira sharply. “You said to—to find you when it was over. But it’s not over yet.” It feels like something noxious is bubbling away inside her throat, threatening to spew poison all over the conversation. 

“That’s an excuse,” says Daisy. 

“It’s really not.” 

“Basira—” 

“It’s _not_ an excuse,” snaps Basira. “We haven’t won yet. In fact, we’ve had a pretty massive setback, in case you haven’t noticed.” 

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.” Daisy’s still-healing mouth is set into an unhappy line. 

The ugly, bubbling thing in Basira’s chest finally spills over, despite her best efforts. “Why aren’t you glad” _—that I saved you—_ “to be alive?” asks Basira. 

“I am,” says Daisy. But she won’t meet Basira’s eye, and she swallows hard after speaking. 

“It doesn’t sound like it,” Basira snaps, and instantly regrets it from the way Daisy flinches at the sharp words. 

“I didn’t want to do it,” says Daisy. “Giving in when I knew it meant dying was the most terrifying thing I’ve ever done. But I knew it might come to that, and I made my peace with it. I thought you would understand, and make your peace with it, too.” 

Basira’s jaw clenches. “But you weren’t _gone!_ You were still there, I _knew_ you were still there, and I got you _out!”_

“I was, and you did,” says Daisy softly. “But that’s not the point. You can’t keep saving me, Basira.” 

“Like _hell—”_

Daisy interrupts her. “People making excuses for me and giving me second chances were what made me a monster in the first place,” she says flatly. “I don’t _want_ to die, now that I’m me again, but I need to know that, if I give in a second time, you won’t unleash me on the world just because you can’t stomach killing me.” 

To Basira’s horror, a tear crawls slowly down Daisy’s cheek. Basira can count on one hand the number of times she’s seen Daisy cry, and most of them were from laughter. 

“I’ve lived with myself long enough to know that, if I don’t have a consequence for failure, I won’t stop,” Daisy continues, voice unsteady. “I’ll want to, but I won’t. And I don’t—I _don’t_ want to die. But I’d _rather_ die, right here, right now, than live with the fact that you’d trade other people’s lives for mine. Please. Don’t let me hurt more innocent people because you care more about me than about doing what’s right.” 

Straight for the throat, as always. Basira clenches her fists together in her lap as she breathes steadily in and out. It’s true that she hadn’t been able to stand the idea that Daisy—her oldest, last, _only_ friend—might be gone. She has a sickening feeling that, faced with that awful truth, she’d chosen to ignore what she hadn’t wanted to see. That she’d disregarded Daisy’s last wish in favor of what _she_ had wanted.

It’s past time to start listening. But better late than never.

“I’m sorry,” says Basira at last. 

“I know,” says Daisy. 

“I won’t do it again,” says Basira. 

“Thank you,” says Daisy. 

“How did you stand it?” Basira asks. “Living on borrowed time.” To her horrified surprise, her voice wobbles on the last word.

There’s a scraping sound as Daisy pushes her chair back, and then one unexpectedly frail hand is resting on her shoulder. “One day at a time,” says Daisy quietly. “You just keep going, and try to enjoy the time while you have it, and when it’s gone, you mourn.” Basira hears her swallow again. “And then you say goodbye.” 

“Not yet,” Basira mumbles, hating her own honesty, the way her voice is trembling. “I’m not ready yet. I don’t want things to change. I want to go _back.”_

“I know,” says Daisy. “But I can’t, and neither can you. I’m all right for now, and I _am_ grateful for the extra time. But some day, one way or another, it’ll run out. Even if I stay free, I’m not exactly going to live forever.” She gently squeezes Basira’s shoulder, and then sits back down in her chair. “Please. Don’t turn me—or yourself—into a monster, just because you can’t stand to lose. When I’m gone, _let me go.”_

Basira takes a deep breath. Another. Another. The doubt recedes, to be replaced by miserable certainty. She _had_ been deceiving herself. 

She needs to stop.

“I will,” says Basira, and this time she means it. She _has_ to mean it. “I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: gore, canon-typical violence, body horror (canon-typical Jude Perry), minor character death, self-sacrificial/suicidal-ish ideation (i.e. I’d very literally rather die than x), discussions of mortality.
> 
> Want to make my day? Tell me what part of this chapter was your favorite!


	9. Advice for the Apocalypse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Georgie and Melanie make a new friend, get famous, and finally take some time off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO HOW ABOUT THAT TRAILER HUH??? 
> 
> Just a heads up: this fic was written in its entirety before the s5 trailer dropped, so while I may adjust a few details here and there if there are things I like and want to borrow from upcoming episodes, I suspect this will end up pretty dang far from canon. (For instance: I direct your attention to the “Hopeful Ending” tag above.) As a result, it is unlikely to contain spoilers for season 5, though I will warn for those if they end up happening.
> 
> Thanks to [NevillesGran](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NevillesGran) for beta reading this chapter!
> 
> Content warnings in the end notes.

As time creeps on, both impossibly slowly and at an incredible clip, people start getting used to the new normal.

Jasmine—and Rachel, who seems to have moved in permanently—manage to start up an impromptu community kitchen, which they operate out of the lower-story flat. They have to get very inventive—by some miracle, the food shortages aren’t too bad on average, what with more and more places adopting rationing policies, but the stock in the shops varies wildly from day to day. Georgie and Melanie, like most of the other inhabitants of their street, are happy to let someone else deal with the logistics. It’s one fewer headache, and promising one or two volunteer shifts a week is more than a fair exchange.

The house isn’t just popular with locals, either. More and more strangers—“Not the spooky kind,” Georgie has to reassure Melanie the first time she mentions it—start showing up, trading labor and supplies for food and companionship. At first, Georgie thinks that’s all there is to it. But after a while, she realizes that while most of them don’t stay long, there are a sizable number camping out in the nearby streets and gardens. And the nearby houses are a good deal more densely packed with the neighbors’ friends and extended family than the rest of the city seems to be.

One morning, nearly two weeks in, Georgie asks Jasmine if she knows what’s going on as she fetches breakfast from downstairs. Jasmine stares at her in shock for several seconds. “You haven’t... noticed?” 

“Noticed what?” 

Jasmine gestures expansively at their surroundings. “This house. It was too big for a while, remember? But now it’s just normal.” 

Georgie blinks. “It is?” Jasmine looks at her suspiciously. “I literally cannot tell,” says Georgie. “I have some kind of immunity, so it doesn’t feel different to me.” 

“But you’ve noticed the Eyeball,” Jasmine says, still sounding a bit unnerved. 

“Yeah, I mean—I can tell that things have changed, but I don’t get the... feelings, I suppose?” She frowns. “But that doesn’t answer my question. Why are all these people here?” 

“The house is _normal,”_ says Jasmine. “Or, more normal than everywhere else, anyway. The garden, the whole street, even the next street over. It’s safe here, more or less. Fewer creepy-crawlies in the corners, less stuff messing with your head. It’s quiet.” 

Georgie asks Melanie about it when they sit down to eat. “Have you noticed anything odd about the house?” 

“You mean like apocalypse-odd? No. Though I’m with you so much of the time, it’s hard for me to tell.” Melanie frowns. “It _has_ stopped doing that thing where all the distances change on you, thank _god._ I kept getting lost in the hallway.” Her voice turns speculative. “So it hasn’t been replaced by something else? I was wondering if it had, and I’d just... missed it, somehow.” 

“Well, as far as I can tell, it’s the same as always,” Georgie deadpans. Melanie snorts. 

After a brief lull, Melanie says, “Do you think it’s because of you?” 

“Me?” 

“Well, you are sort of immune,” says Melanie. “And people near you pick it up, too, as long as you stay close.” 

Georgie shrugs, then says, “Sure, but a whole building? And the way Jazz was talking about it, it sounded like it’s all the time, not just when I’m here.” 

“It could be,” says Melanie. “I mean, the archives always made me feel like something was watching me—right up until they made me feel like I would never see another human being again, anyway—and I don’t _think_ either Elias or Peter were there all the time.” 

“Some company,” Georgie remarks dryly. 

“Oh, I’m not—I’m not trying to say you’re anything like either of them—” says Melanie quickly. 

Georgie hastens to soothe her. “No, I didn’t think you were.” Melanie’s shoulders relax minutely. “It does make me wonder, though. I mean, they both had other special abilities, didn’t they? The places around them going weird was just a side effect?” 

“Yeah,” says Melanie. “Or I think so, anyway.” 

“Then I wonder, if I am causing this, if there are any unpleasant surprises in store for me.” 

“I hope not,” says Melanie quietly. Her hand twitches on the table, and Georgie reaches across to squeeze it. Melanie takes a breath like she’s about to say something else, but then she seems to change her mind and blows it out in a gusty sigh. 

Once the breakfast dishes are cleared away, Georgie pulls out the paper map she’s been annotating. It’s covered in pencil lines sketching out the zones she and Melanie have charted, and has some additional notes scribbled on it besides. There are a variety of different sizes and shapes of pins stuck in it too, for Melanie’s benefit, though she still has trouble telling some of them apart. 

“Where are we off to today?” asks Melanie. She pulls her pack down from its dedicated hook and starts rifling through it, checking to make sure everything is still where she put it the evening before. 

“I want to go back to that weird street, the one that made you feel drunk? It’s been a while—” 

Her explanation is cut off by Melanie’s snarl of disgust. She watches, resigned, as Melanie pulls their largest kitchen knife out of the bottom of the bag. 

“Again?” asks Georgie. 

“Yep,” grumbles Melanie. She takes a deep breath. “Can you put this away, please? I don’t want to encourage it.” She carefully hands over the knife, handle-first. When Georgie returns to the front room, Melanie is perched on the sofa, fiddling with the straps of the pack. 

“Everything else in order?” Georgie asks. 

“Yeah. Ugh. I really thought, now that it’s been a few days, that it would stop doing that.” 

“Well, hopefully it’ll happen less often now.” Georgie locates her own bag and gives the contents a cursory glance. “No harm done, right? You didn’t cut yourself on it?” Georgie slides her pack on and grabs the fire extinguisher. 

“Nope. Thank goodness. I am _done_ being a rage machine—the bullet was bad enough.” 

With that, they set out together into the waiting city. 

* * *

When they return that evening, tired—and in Melanie’s case, a bit shaky—but encouraged by another day of rescuing their fellow Londoners from waking nightmares, there are a few more strangers hanging around. Georgie plops down beside one of them at one of the makeshift tables, accepting a bowl of highly improvisational curry from one of the kitchen volunteers. 

“What’s with the fire extinguisher?” asks the person on her right as Melanie settles in on the chair to her left. Georgie glances over to see a face she vaguely recognizes. “I meant to ask when you helped me out the other day,” continues the person, “but you were in a hurry to go and it slipped my mind.” 

With that, Georgie can place where she’s seen them before: they had been cornered by mannequins in an alley next to a clothing store two days ago; when Georgie had gone to investigate the shouting, they’d made a break for it. They’d said afterwards that the mannequins had gotten a lot slower and clumsier once Georgie had gotten near. 

“It’s for worms,” says Georgie with a half smile. “Or, you know, fires. You’re Angus, right? Melanie mentioned after we left that you two used to be colleagues.” 

They shake her hand, vigorously, dark hair flopping over their face. “In a manner of speaking! We never worked together directly—we just happened to know a bunch of the same people.” They lean around Georgie slightly. “Hello, by the way, Melanie. Nice to see you both again!”

“Hey,” says Melanie with a vague smile in their direction. 

Melanie and Angus almost immediately launch into a friendly argument over the merits of different kinds of video cameras, and Georgie tunes them out to focus on her curry. When Angus finally stands up, they hesitate before saying, “Listen—I know this is kind of a long shot, but—you both seem to have a pretty good handle on what’s going on, and I know you both had a pretty strong following. Did you ever consider putting out some kind of—public service announcement, or something? Just to let people know what’s going on? You’re the first people I’ve run into who seem to have any idea.” 

Georgie sighs. “We tried, early on. But we haven’t yet been able to find any forms of long-distance communication that work reliably except landline phones. And even those aren’t _reliable,_ they’re just normal-unreliable instead of possessed-by-five-angry-ghosts unreliable.” She pauses. “Unless you’ve found some way of getting back online?” 

“Tragically, I still have no wi-fi,” says Angus, dashing her hopes. “But I do have some radio equipment and a license.” Georgie blinks. “I’m kind of a hobbyist—” 

“I thought you were a video person,” says Melanie, sounding faintly accusatory. 

“I dabble! Anyway, if you wanted to try doing something like that, well... ham radio still works, mostly.” 

“Do you think people would tune in?” asks Melanie. 

“Well... it’s worth a try, right?” Angus shrugs and rubs the back of their neck. “There’s no way I can go out and help people in person like you two, not when I almost got gutted by a couple of lumps of plastic on my third trip out of my flat. But radio? Radio, I can do.” 

“What do you think?” Georgie asks Melanie. 

“If you think people would listen,” Melanie says to Angus, “I’m willing to give it a shot.” 

* * *

The next day, Georgie and Melanie pile into a makeshift studio to record the first of—hopefully—many episodes of what they’re calling Advice for the Apocalypse. They outline what little they know of what’s happened, give a basic rundown on the fourteen Fears, and impart every bit of wisdom they have on how to deal with the new state of the world.

Angus manages to find and negotiate the use of a handful of landlines, and before the day is out, there is already a small army of volunteers—Angus’s neighbors and friends, mostly—drawing up a schedule to take turns answering them. Georgie and Melanie even field some calls from professional radio stations, asking for permission to record and re-broadcast their fledgling show. (They agree on the spot, of course—maybe, once, they would have tried to negotiate for more than just proper attribution, but that’s not the point of what they’re doing now.) 

Georgie is honestly a bit astonished by the response. She supposes that, at the height of What the Ghost’s popularity, she probably had more listeners, and Melanie had her beat by an order of magnitude with Ghost Hunt UK. But the feedback was never this earnest, nor this grateful.

When they finally get home, they’re both too exhausted—emotionally rather than physically, for once—to do more than curl up in bed. They both promise to get around to talking about future plans the next morning before drifting off. 

The next morning, when they make their way down to the garden to see what’s for breakfast, they’re greeted by the sound of their own voices. A knot of people are gathered around a portable emergency radio, listening raptly to Melanie outlining the Fears and their typical trappings. Several of them are taking notes. When Rachel notices them, they’re treated to a round of applause. 

“What is going on,” Melanie remarks conversationally. 

“I think we have some new fans,” Georgie answers. 

After that, there’s no question of what they’re doing with the rest of the day. They head over to Angus’s makeshift studio immediately, eating their breakfast along the way. As soon as they arrive, they settle in behind the microphone with a long list of listener questions and get to work. 

It’s not just questions, either; people begin calling in tips as well. Georgie and Melanie are nervous at first about re-broadcasting those, but some of the volunteers start drawing up lists of sightings and advice, and passing them into the tiny, cramped booth once they have similar information from multiple people. 

And so the day passes. They spread the word about fires and sinkholes, plagues of insects and nests of spiders. In between announcements and listener questions, they spread what coping strategies they can: the known weaknesses of specific manifestations, stories of people who got away, how it feels to start losing yourself and what to do when it happens. And again and again, they stress the most important advice of all: stand by the people you love. Hold onto them, help them, and make sure they know you care. 

As the light starts fading, they take a break for food and water. Melanie has gradually gone hoarse over the course of the day, and Georgie’s on her way there. Neither had a chance to grab a proper lunch, either. 

“I think we should probably take tomorrow off,” Melanie rasps to Georgie’s relief. 

“Oh good. I was about to suggest that, if you hadn’t,” says Georgie. “My voice is going and yours sounds downright painful. I don’t think we’ll be able to keep up this kind of schedule, especially if we still want to go exploring ourselves.” 

“So you do want to go back to that?” 

“Well, yes,” says Georgie, more hesitantly now. “Not as much as we were doing before, I think—getting the word out about this stuff is probably more helpful to more people, all things considered. But as long as I am immune, or whatever, I might as well try and use that to help people.” She pauses. “Unless—do you think it’s too risky?” 

“Oh, no, I just—I thought, maybe _you’d_ want us to do something safer,” says Melanie. “I do like actually going out and rescuing people, even if it is dangerous. I just didn’t want to assume you were willing to, you know, keep putting yourself in harm’s way for strangers.” 

Georgie shrugs, then says, “Well, it’s gone well for us so far. We make a good team.” Melanie smiles and bumps their shoulders together gently. “And besides, it doesn’t take much more effort than just wandering around and... basically acting like a really clueless horror movie protagonist.” 

At that, Melanie laughs outright. She still seems somehow dissatisfied with Georgie’s answer, but she lets the matter drop. The two of them sign off for the night, promising to be back in a day or two, and leave the equipment in the hands of their new crew. 

* * *

One of the best and worst parts of becoming the de facto public experts on the apocalypse, Melanie reflects, is the quantity of information that comes their way. She had spent so much time and effort disengaging from that whole world, and Georgie had never signed up for it in the first place, and yet here they are in the thick of it. It’s just as horrifying and tragic as before, if not more so. On the other hand, she’s here of her own free will this time, and actively helping people instead of just blindly following Elias’s blatantly evil plans. 

And plus, sometimes the rumors they hear are beneficial, not just to others, but to them personally. For example: the fateful phone call that lets them know that Basira is still alive. 

Following a brief lull in between calls around lunchtime, one of the phones rings again. One of the new people (it’s so much harder to differentiate people without the help of faces, Melanie thinks irritably) stands up, chair scraping on the floor. “I can get that,” he says, footsteps lightly thumping across the room. 

But then Georgie says, strangely insistent, “No—let me,” and the new guy must have been willing to let Georgie take over because the next thing Melanie hears is Georgie saying, “Advice for the Apocalypse, Georgie speaking.” There’s a long pause then. The person on the other end of the line speaks too quietly for Melanie to even pick out their voice, let alone their words. It must even be a little too quiet for Georgie, because she has to ask them several times to speak up. 

“Okay, and did you see what happened then? ...Hello? Hello? Damn it.” George puts the phone back in the cradle with a groan. 

“What was that about?” asks Melanie. 

“Someone said they saw a person who sounds a lot like Basira getting into a confrontation—within walking distance of her neighborhood—with some kind of wolf-cat-bird monster,” says Georgie. 

“What? Is—is she—” 

“I don’t know how it ended.” Now Georgie’s chair scrapes against the floor, and she makes a small involuntary sigh, as though sitting down heavily. “They didn’t stay on the phone long enough to tell me. Though I’m not sure I could have heard it anyway—the line was bad, and getting worse.” 

“Do you want to try calling back?” 

“Probably a good idea,” says Georgie. “Hopefully it’s a temporary problem. Or, at least, a problem with their phone, not ours.” There’s the click of a button being pressed. The phone doesn’t make the soft _beep_ ing sound of redialing, though. The click repeats once, twice—Melanie can’t help but imagine the expression Georgie makes when she’s cross—and then there’s a clattering sound of plastic, and Georgie makes a loud sound of disgust. 

“Georgie?” Melanie scrambles to her feet, unsure of whether to approach. 

“I’m fine,” says Georgie. “Redial button was full of spiderwebs.” There are cries of disgust from around the room. 

Melanie sits back down with a thump. “That can’t be a coincidence,” she says, feeling slightly sick. 

“Nope. Especially when—” Georgie pauses. “Can I talk to Melanie alone for a minute, please?” There are a few murmurs of assent, and the sound of several pairs of shuffling feet. When it’s quiet again, Georgie says, “I saw a bit of web on Sean’s hand when he went to answer the phone.” 

Melanie’s already-chilled blood turns to ice. “We haven’t had much trouble from the Web yet,” she says through lips that are suddenly numb. “Why now?” 

“Well... you said it was usually one of the more psychological ones, right?” 

Melanie nods, then, unsure if Georgie is looking or not, says, “Yes.” 

“Then it would make sense for it to find it harder to make an impression on me.” 

“And, by extension, the rest of us,” says Melanie. 

“Yeah, exactly. I wonder if this is just it making an extra effort, or something.” 

“Do you think Sean...?” 

“I don’t _think_ so?” says Georgie. She doesn’t sound sure, though. “It’s true he’s a bit of a pushover, but not like that programmer man you told me about, from that statement about the spider website.” Melanie shudders involuntarily. “I wonder if it’s to do with Basira,” Georgie continues speculatively. “If I hadn’t seen the spiderweb, we might never have heard about it. The volunteers don’t tell us about the sightings unless there have been at least three different reports, and it sounds like the area was pretty deserted when that person saw Basira.” 

“So do you think the Web wanted us to hear about it?” 

Georgie hums, thinking. “No,” she says finally. “I was closer to the phone than Sean. I would have answered it if he hadn’t volunteered. And the connection was bad, and when we wanted more information, the redial button was disconnected.” She pauses before saying, “Unless it _wants_ us to think that, and really it’s trying to get us involved—” 

Melanie groans. “Please stop. See, this is why I hated Web statements so much. All it takes is one tiny spider web and suddenly you can’t stop reading into every little thing.” 

“All right. Find Basira, yes or no?” 

Melanie trusts her gut, forcing herself not to try and ponder the possible layers of meaning. “Yes.” 

“All right then,” says Georgie. “Let’s go find her.” 

* * *

They can’t go find her right away, of course. They have a schedule to keep, now, and while they have a vague idea of where to look, travel is still difficult and London is still massive. 

And Melanie keeps acting strangely. Georgie almost thinks she’s imagining it, but the signs keep piling up. She’s never the first to go out the door anymore, regardless of whether they’re heading for the studio or out on patrol. And she’s more withdrawn than before, when they have moments of quiet, preferring to sit on the sofa petting the Admiral rather than carry on a conversation. And every now and then, she’ll ask a question, and claim to be happy with the answer even when her face is twisted up in frustration. 

It concerns Georgie, both that something seems to be going on and that Melanie doesn’t want to tell her. She spends a lot of time debating with herself whether to bring it up; she knows that Melanie doesn’t usually react well to people prying into things she thinks are personal, and thus doesn’t want to push. But the day after they get the call about Basira, her concern tips over the line into worry. 

It’s evening by the time they get back home; it’s been another long day of exploring the neighborhood, looking for people in a tight spot. They’d gone a little further afield than usual this time, and had an unpleasant run-in with a rather unusual manifestation of the Dark. Rather than clouding sight, it had muffled hearing, gradually enough not to be noticeable until Melanie had tried to ask Georgie if the terrain had changed, and had panicked when she didn’t get an answer. 

As soon as they’re in the door, Melanie makes a beeline for the bedroom, counting steps under her breath rather than silently. That’s normal, for the most part; Georgie is familiar with the sound of a rattled or just tired Melanie muttering numbers as she wanders the flat, and Melanie often retreats to bed to spend time with the Admiral after particularly difficult days. What isn’t usual is that the Admiral comes wandering out of the bedroom a short while later, with no Melanie in tow. 

Georgie stares at her favorite fluffy menace for some five minutes, trying to make up her mind. Eventually, she scoops him up and goes to find Melanie. 

Melanie is curled up under the sheet, back to the door. “Hey,” says Georgie, softly enough not to wake her if she’s asleep, but loud enough to get her attention if she’s awake. 

“Hmm?” Melanie’s head lifts slightly, but she doesn’t otherwise move. 

“Did you shoo the Admiral on purpose, or...?” 

“Oh. No, I rolled over too fast and he spooked.” 

“Want him back?” 

“Yes, please,” says Melanie. She wriggles into a half-sitting position, propped up against the pillows, and accepts an armful of cat. The Admiral purrs and starts trying to knead her collarbone. She chuckles—a fragile sound—and strokes the top of his head. 

Georgie almost chickens out, but she _is_ worried, so, trying to keep her voice neutral, she asks, “Any reason you weren’t trying to win him back over? I’ve never known you to let His Seaworthiness run off when you wanted company.” 

Melanie smiles at the nickname, but then sighs. “I... I was just worried he would be curled up and quiet somewhere and I’d have to ask you to help me find him.” 

“I don’t mind that,” says Georgie softly. 

“I just didn’t want to bug you,” Melanie mumbles. “And it’s... sort of embarrassing, for me? I know—I know I probably _shouldn’t_ feel that way, and I’m trying to get over it, but...” 

Georgie climbs onto the bed to sit next to Melanie. “Can I—?” 

“Sure.” 

Georgie drapes one arm around Melanie’s shoulders and rests the other across her middle. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

“Not really. I’m just—in a mood. It’ll pass.” 

“Okay,” says Georgie. 

They sit there for a few minutes. Finally, Melanie huffs—not quite a laugh, but a release of tension all the same. “Thanks,” she says quietly. “I know you didn’t exactly—you didn’t exactly sign up for this.” 

A warning _ping_ goes off in the back of Georgie’s head. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean—” Melanie groans, freeing one arm to scrub a hand over her eyelids. Fairly hard. Georgie winces sympathetically. “We only started dating, what, four, five months ago? And you didn’t know then that I was going to go and—and gouge my eyes out, or that you’d be helping take care of me while I recovered. It’s sort of—a lot of commitment. And I know you didn’t want to have your life be derailed by. You know.” She wiggles her fingers sarcastically. “Spooky stuff.” 

“Choosing to be there for someone I love, even if it’s a major commitment, isn’t the same thing as having my life derailed,” says Georgie. “I’m with you of my own free will. You’re not—you’re not dragging me down, or messing up my life, not in _any_ way.” 

“And the apocalypse?” Melanie asks. “You wanted no part of this, but you’re right in the middle of it anyway. We’ve been working—working hard, with basically no breaks—to fix something you tried to turn your back on.” 

Georgie makes herself sit with that for a minute. “It’s true,” she says slowly, “that we haven’t been taking a lot of time off to take care of ourselves, since this started. I’m not feeling burned out—not yet, anyway—but we should probably try and be proactive about that, instead of waiting for the stress to catch up with us.” 

“And the rest of it?” 

Georgie sighs. “I did sort of get dragged into all this,” she says. “But I could have chosen to barricade myself in my flat and do nothing, and I didn’t. Everything I’ve done since this started has been by my own choice, on my own terms. Or at least, as much it’s possible to have choices in the middle of a disaster.” She reaches out and gives the Admiral a scratch under the chin. “I want to help people,” she continues. “I even _like_ doing it, at least the way we’ve been going about it. It makes me feel like—like I’m doing the right thing. Like I’m doing something worthwhile with my life. I want to keep it up, at least for the foreseeable future.” 

“I do too,” says Melanie softly. 

“I’m glad.” Georgie reaches up and squeezes Melanie’s hand. To her relief, Melanie squeezes back. 

They sit in cozy silence for a little while longer before Melanie says, “We should probably figure out how we’re going to find Basira.” 

“We probably should,” says Georgie, not moving an inch. 

“But?” 

“As you pointed out, we have been working for a long time with no breaks,” says Georgie. “I think we’ve earned an evening off, don’t you?” 

“Oh god, I already feel guilty.” Melanie rubs her face. “This is going to be harder in practice than in theory, isn’t it?” 

“Well, practice makes perfect,” says Georgie without thinking.

Melanie groans. “Spare me the platitudes, _please.”_

“Sorry,” says Georgie with a chuckle. Then she reaches over and pets the Admiral. “Shall I also spare you the _cat_ -itude?”

“Get out,” says Melanie, deadpan. Georgie’s snicker turns into a gale of laughter as Melanie playfully shoves her in the direction of the door. “That was the _worst joke—”_

The Admiral gives both of them a dirty look and scampers off to curl up on the sofa where it’s quiet, but they don’t notice. They’re too busy enjoying their moment of peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: references to food shortages, references to past eye trauma, canon-typical Web mindfuckery, complicated feelings about major life changes
> 
> Tell me your favorite line, if you like!


	10. Aphelion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jon and Martin have a tiring morning, a nice evening, and a very, very unpleasant afternoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome, folks, to Angst Crime #2.
> 
> Thanks to [NevillesGran](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NevillesGran) for beta reading this chapter!
> 
> Content warnings in the end notes.

Post-apocalyptic London isn’t quite how Martin imagined it would be. 

For one thing, there are more people than he had expected. Back when they’d started the long trek south, they’d been passing through rural areas, and even when suburbs and then cities had become unavoidable, Jon had steered them away from most possible complications. They’d had to pass through populated areas to restock on food, of course, and there had been a few nights when it was just too cold to camp out. But even then, they’d mostly gone for small villages, or towns where most of the people had... left.

Once, the dearth of human contact would probably have bothered both of them. Now, being around strangers is—difficult. Martin craves the sight of other people even as he finds prolonged attention aversive. Not from Jon, of course, never from Jon; but Martin has always hated to be stared at, tall and broad and obtrusive as he is, and being submerged in the Lonely hasn’t helped with that particular anxiety. 

On the other hand, Jon doesn’t seem to be bothered by attention, but in the aftermath of the Eye’s emergence, he’s been finding it difficult to interact with others with any kind of normalcy. He _knows_ things about them without having to be told, which is unnerving even after he explains himself. Worse, people will occasionally recognize him from their nightmares. 

Jon had explained it to Martin like this: he can pay attention to many things at once, but he’s drawn to nightmares in particular. If he focuses, he can stop looking at them, but the more he cuts himself off, the closer he gets to a state of catatonia, so consumed by the effort that he can do nothing else. He hadn’t said it, but from the way he’d hunched his shoulders, rubbing at his chest, Martin had deduced that the effort is not just draining but painful as well.

So rather than cut himself off completely, he tries to mitigate the effects of his intrusions as much as possible: limiting his attention as much as he safely can, and skipping rapidly from nightmare to nightmare, never staying to terrorize one person for more than a short while. Now that he has enough control to choose whose dreams he’s invading, he’s making the best use of it that he can.

Some of the people who recognize him take it in stride; they assume that this is just another way the new brokenness of the world manifests itself. Strange, of course, and frightening, but in the end, unremarkable. Others assume that his appearance in their nightmares is a sign of malicious intent, and become hostile. 

After the first time someone had threatened Jon with a knife, Martin had insisted that they avoid population centers as much as possible. 

But now they’re in the biggest population center in the entire UK, and there are people _everywhere._ Sure, the streets aren’t nearly as busy as they used to be; people seem to be taking refuge indoors as much as possible. Probably to try and get away from the Eye. It doesn’t work, of course; Martin understands that better than most people. But it’s hard to fight the instinct to hide, even if you know it’s futile. 

The one thing that does bring people out of doors—carefully, furtively, and armed with a dozen or more improbable objects, talismans against the various Fears—is grocery shopping. Even after the end of the world, people still need to eat. 

The shop nearest Martin’s now-empty apartment block is still taking cash, thankfully. While they’re not yet out of food, they’re cutting it a little close for comfort. Martin resolutely pushes down the memories of toting home their bags from the tiny shop in the village in Scotland as he makes his way to the front. Jon joins him there, standing close enough that his arm brushes against Martin’s side, head bent to allow his clean but long and untrimmed hair to conceal his face. 

The woman at the front doesn’t touch the till; instead, she counts out change from a small metal cash box beneath the counter, and writes down their names, descriptions, and purchases in a notebook. She looks tired, and the suspicion is ground into her face as deeply as the faint grime. (Martin suspects she either lives in or regularly passes through a pocket of Buried space.) Nevertheless, even if she’s not overly friendly, she’s at least perfectly civil as she explains the rationing policy that all the nearby shops have adopted, and she doesn’t stare too much at the scars Jon can’t quite conceal.

Martin is on his way out the door, shopping and Jon in tow, when there’s a gasp from behind. He turns quickly, Jon following suit, but the woman isn’t even looking at them; she’s fiddling with a radio, muttering something about missing the show. After several seconds of ear-splitting, mind-bending feedback noises, a familiar voice cuts through the static. 

“Hello, London—and I guess other places too, now—and welcome to today’s episode of Advice for the Apocalypse!” 

Beside him, Martin feels rather than sees Jon grab at his elbow for support. 

“I’m your host, Georgie!” continues Georgie’s voice, shockingly cheerful. 

“And I’m your other host, Melanie,” comes Melanie’s voice, less energetic but by no means subdued. Jon’s hand clenches harder around Martin’s arm. 

Georgie takes over again. “Today, we’re going to continue our detailed discussion of the Fears with a deep dive—excuse the pun—into the one we call the Vast. It has some other names, too—” 

Jon makes a sound that could be the beginning of a word, before abruptly cutting himself off and yanking Martin’s arm in the direction of the door. Martin follows, a bit dazed. 

Jon leads Martin back in the direction of his (their?) flat. His pace is urgent, though he doesn’t run. After a minute or two, Martin, getting more and more worried by the second, says, “Jon? What’s going on?” 

“I can’t—I have to—I need something to focus on.” He doesn’t slow down, though he does look at Martin. All but the smallest of his pocked scars have eyes staring wildly out of them, and they all gleam, even though they’re not yet into the Beholding area that surrounds Martin’s flat. “Will you—will you talk to me? Please?” He’s so distressed that he isn’t even careful not to phrase the request as a statement rather than a question, and so an answer pops out of Martin’s mouth before he has a chance to wonder why Jon is asking. 

“A—about what?” 

“Anything,” Jon begs. 

“I don’t—” 

“Tell me—you can tell me about that book you were reading this morning.” 

“The book—? Oh. Are you sure? I thought you didn’t like the Romantics—” 

_”Please,”_ says Jon again. “It’s enough that you care about it, I just need—something to focus on—” 

The raw desperation in Jon’s voice finally computes, and Martin immediately launches into a rambling, impromptu recital of the poems he remembers, interspersed with his own personal commentary when he realizes that he can’t recall enough material to make it all the way home. 

They have to go a bit out of their way to avoid the green-tinted miasma that still hovers threateningly around the apartment block. Its border is unnaturally neat and crisp compared to the places they’ve been traveling through for the past several weeks, but not, Martin realizes suddenly, compared to the rest of London. He interrupts his own commentary to point this out to Jon. 

To his surprise, Jon answers, sounding significantly less strained than he had before. “I noticed that too. I suspect it has something to do with the number of people around, though honestly, I’m not sure why the population would have that particular effect.” 

“Feeling better?” Martin asks anxiously. 

“A bit,” says Jon. 

“What was that about? I was startled, but you looked like you’d—” _seen a ghost,_ Martin doesn’t say. “Gotten a major fright,” he finishes. 

“When I first heard their voices,” says Jon, sounding as though he’s choosing his words with great care, “I wanted to go looking for them. I didn’t. It was—sort of hard, though.” 

“Like not thinking of an elephant?” 

Jon glances up, a startled half-smile on his lips. His eyes are starting to glow in earnest now that they’re standing beside Martin’s apartment block, but his gaze isn’t quite unbearable yet. “Yes. That’s—that’s actually exactly how I think of it.” He sighs, looking back ahead. “It’s a little easier now, out of the heat of the moment, but it’s like an—an itch. I _know_ there’s something there to find out, and I _can_ choose not to look, but it’s... uncomfortable.” 

The conversation pauses briefly while they deal with the front door of the building, and remains paused as they haul themselves up the stairs to Martin’s third-floor flat. (Neither of them suggest the elevator.) 

Martin finally speaks up again when they’re packing the food away in the kitchen. “Is there a reason you’re being so careful to avoid looking in on them? I mean—you said you’ve been keeping an eye on Basira, right?” 

“Yes, I have,” says Jon. “But Georgie and Melanie...” He painstakingly arranges the jars of preserves he’d picked up at the shop on the shelf in silence. Finally, he shakes his head a little and continues, “By the end, Georgie wanted nothing to do with me, and Melanie wanted nothing to do with the Institute. They told me not to involve them, and then I tried anyway and got quite rightfully told off for it, so now I’m... done. I’ve hurt both of them enough.” He sniffs, once, so quietly that Martin almost misses it. 

“You think it would hurt them just to see if they’re alive?” Jon looks up sharply, and Martin hastens to clarify: “I’m not saying you _should!_ If you think that it would be a bad idea, then you’re probably right. I just don’t quite understand.” 

“Well... it’s sort of complicated,” says Jon at length. “I don’t think it would necessarily hurt either of them if I looked once or twice, just to see if they were alive. But I’m not sure, if I started, that I would be able to stop myself again. Maybe I could. But I think it would be harder to do it once and stop than to just never do it. And I think it definitely could be harmful if I got into a habit of it. At the very least, they’d almost certainly know.” 

“Really? How?” 

The feeling of being watched sharpens, ever so slightly, before fading back into the background. 

“...Oh.” 

“Precisely. And also...” He goes quiet again. “I’m not exactly sanguine about using abilities given to me by an unknowable, hostile alien presence to spy on my... on other people. I recognize that I don’t have a lot of choice in the matter—” He chuckles grimly. “But that doesn’t mean that I want to... that I want to _want_ to do it.” 

“That you... what?” 

“I’ve come to realize, over the past... half a year or so, that there’s often a significant difference between what I want, on a purely impulsive, raw-desire sort of level, and... what I would _prefer_ my desires to be,” says Jon, slow and precise again. “I do _want_ to—to keep an eye on people I know, so to speak. _Not_ keeping tabs on everything that matters to me... it feels a bit like stepping out onto a busy street with my eyes closed. But, to borrow your turn of phrase, I don’t want to become something that does that.” 

“That makes sense,” says Martin. He finishes putting away the vegetables in the fridge—the fresh produce section in the shop had been sparse, but after several days of protein bars he’ll take what he can get—and turns to face Jon. 

Jon is sitting perched on Martin’s kitchen counter, leaning back against one of the cabinets. Eyes closed, as they have been the whole time they’ve been in the flat, but from the diffuse glow across Jon’s face, Martin can tell that most of them are pointed at him behind their lids. Martin crosses the floor to stand in front of Jon and gather up his hands into Martin’s own. He can feel, very precisely, the spot where the warm metal of his new ring interrupts the sensation of Jon’s skin, and feels himself smile helplessly. He hides the expression by pressing Jon’s left palm against his lips. 

“And it’s also just the principle of the thing, too,” says Jon. “Even aside from the whole spying angle. I know that Basira knows—she’s reacted once or twice, when I was watching, but she didn’t tell me to stop, so I don’t feel _too_ bad about that? But, well... Georgie told me, in no uncertain terms, not to involve her in... this. And now she is involved, and it’s because of me.” 

“Jon, no.” Martin grips Jon’s hands tighter in his own. “We’ve been over this. It wasn’t your fault. I know how hard you tried to stop.” 

Jon leans forward and tucks his head neatly under Martin’s chin, eyes still closed. Despite everything, Martin’s heart still does several backflips. “Thank you,” he says quietly. “Your good opinion means—it means a great deal to me. But that’s not what I meant.” 

“Then what did you mean?” 

“Regardless of whether or not it was my _fault,”_ says Jon, “I was still at the center of this. And that will be obvious to... basically everyone who knows me even slightly. When I left London, Georgie was, for good reason, very upset with me. We didn’t part on good terms, and I wouldn’t be surprised if just being reminded I exist would be upsetting to her. And if the sky isn’t already a good enough reminder, well... I’m not inclined to give her a better one. Now that I have enough control, I’ve been staying out of her dreams—and Melanie’s—since this happened, for the same reason. I’m not going to inflict my presence on them any more.” 

Martin doesn’t really have anything to say to that, so he just stands there and holds Jon for a long moment, ignoring the prickle all down his spine as best he can. 

Eventually, Jon says, “It’s a bit late to go and meet up with Basira tonight. I think we should probably set out tomorrow morning instead.” 

“Sure,” says Martin, and busies himself with preparing dinner. Jon slips down from his perch on the counter and washes the dishes as Martin dirties them. It’s almost like how things were back in the cottage, Martin reflects, if you ignore the background radiation of terror. Which, honestly, is surprisingly easy, compared to how hopeless everything felt back at the beginning. 

They sit down at Martin’s beaten-up old kitchen table, and Jon scoots his chair around so that he can sit next to Martin instead of across from him. Martin feels himself turn pink, and ducks his head to hide it. 

“You don’t have to do that, you know,” says Jon matter-of-factly. 

“Do what?” 

“Hide when you’re pleased about things.” 

Martin can feel the temperature of his face rise several degrees. “Pardon?” he squeaks. 

Jon shifts in his seat, and Martin realizes that he’s embarrassed now too. “I can—I can still see even with my eyes closed, especially here, and—I can tell that you, um. That you keep hiding your face. You don’t, er, you don’t have to.” 

“Oh,” says Martin. “Er. Sorry—” 

“No!” His vehemence startles both of them. Jon continues in a quieter voice, “Please. You don’t have to, to apologize. I just—I wanted to say that, I’m not about to, to make fun of you for it or anything. If that’s what you were worried about.” He groans and covers his own face. “Christ, I’m bad at this.”

“It’s okay.” Martin leans over to kiss the top of Jon’s head. Then he smiles and says, “I won’t make fun of you, either.” 

Jon chuckles, the sound muffled in Martin’s shirt. “Well. I’m glad we got that out of the way.” 

Martin reaches up and strokes Jon’s hair, hesitantly at first, and then less so when Jon lets out a faint sigh and relaxes into the touch. The yellow stone perched on his hand catches the light, and he stares at it for a minute, transfixed by the sight. 

Jon smiles. “Enjoying the view, I suppose.” 

Martin flushes again, but manages to not try and cover his face again. “Yeah, a little,” he says. “I know you said that the jeweler lady from the Dark town gave it to you, but did you get to choose from a few different ones, or...?” 

“I did.” He doesn’t ask, but Martin can still hear the unspoken question there. 

“I was wondering if you had a particular reason to pick this one? I like it,” he adds hastily, in case Jon takes that as a criticism. “I _love_ it. It’s beautiful. I only ask because, um, the color’s a bit uncommon, for, you know.” The words are hard to say for some reason. “An—an engagement ring. And I was just wondering if there was a particular reason, or if you just liked it, or...?” 

Jon’s ear abruptly goes very warm where it’s pressing against the base of Martin’s throat. “I. Erm. I just thought, well. It reminded me of—of the sun. Of sunshine. Of y—” He coughs and fiddles with his hands. “Of the reason I’m here.” 

“Oh?” says Martin, and then, _“Oh.”_ And then, a moment later, “Mmm. Sap.” 

“I am the least sappy person ever to live,” Jon protests, incorrectly. 

“I’m engaged to a hopeless romantic,” says Martin through a fit of giggles. Jon huffs and Martin could swear he could _hear_ him roll his eyes, but he doesn’t pull away. 

They do manage to eat dinner before it cools on the table. But it’s a near thing. 

* * *

Martin should have known that things were going too well. 

They had survived the trek to London; they’d had a close encounter with Jared Hopworth and not only lived but got away with a car and supplies. They’d gotten _engaged,_ for goodness’ sake. 

So when, halfway to Basira’s flat the following afternoon, Jon abruptly turns to him, stuttering an apology, eyes wide, Martin _really should not have been so shocked._

“Wait—Jon, please, I can’t understand what you’re _saying—”_

“I don’t know how I missed—should’ve been obvious—I don’t know where he was hiding—” 

“Jon, you have to tell me what is going on, _please—”_

“Well, hello again, Martin!” says a genial, horribly familiar voice. “You know, I’m rather surprised you survived all this. You’ll forgive me for saying so, but the last time we met, you didn’t strike me as particularly long for this world!”

Martin freezes as Jon steps around him, putting himself between Martin and Simon Fairchild. 

Simon looks much the same as the last time Martin saw him—a stick figure of a man only a little taller than Jon, with thinning gray hair, thick glasses, and a jolly smile. He’s traded in the eclectic-looking blue suit for what appears to be eclectic-looking blue hiking gear, but he seems otherwise totally unaffected by the chaos around them.

“Simon,” says Martin, trying to keep his voice from trembling as much as possible. He thinks, in the corner of his brain that isn’t panicking, that coming face-to-face with Simon is every bit as terrifying as running into Jared Hopworth, but in a totally different way. Jared had been all explosive fury, towering over them like a giant, and it had been all too easy to imagine exactly what he would do when he was done spitting accusations. Simon, on the other hand, doesn’t look like he could do anything to them, but Martin has read (or heard about secondhand) enough of his exploits to have a dizzying variety of horrible fates to wonder about. 

“And the Archivist!” Simon holds out his hand as if to shake Jon’s, but Jon just stands there between them, glaring. Martin can spy a tremor in his shoulders as well. 

“What do you want, Fairchild?” Jon snarls. It’s the first time Martin has heard him ask a direct question in weeks, and he can feel the air thrum with the force of it. Even not directed at him, the pressure makes him want to double over on the concrete, want to spill all his secrets to appease the thing that sits in the sky and then run away, far away where nothing can ever see him again—

“Quite rude, Archivist,” says Simon. He remains upright, but his posture becomes significantly worse, as though something enormously heavy has come to rest on his back, and his skin goes faintly gray. “Nobody understands the value of pleasantries anymore. Nevertheless—” he sucks in a breath as though it pains him. “Nevertheless, I will answer your question. I am here to speak to you, Archivist, and your... assistant, is it?” The pressure in the air lessens instantly, and Simon straightens instantly. “Ah, that’s much better! Now. To business.” 

“How did you hide from me?” Jon snaps. Before the pressure is even finished building, Simon is speaking. 

“Oh, come now, do you really expect to deprive an old man of all his tricks? ...Yes? Ah well. To answer your question: I wasn’t really _hiding,_ per se. It was more that, until I decided to say hello, I was rather too far away for you to notice.” He shrugs. “Until I wasn’t.” 

“What—” Jon begins a third time, pressure already building up again, but Simon cuts him off. 

“I must say, this is new!” He gestures expansively at the city around them. “I can’t say that I like what you’ve done with the sky, but the rest of it is simply fascinating! I didn’t think there was much that could surprise me anymore, but you’ve certainly exceeded expectations. Tell me, did Jonah put you up to this, or was it your idea?” 

“It wasn’t—it wasn’t my fault—” Jon sputters, sounding as though he can’t decide whether to be confused, guilty, or furiously offended. Martin involuntarily reaches out a hand to try and comfort him, but drops it back to his side, wary of demonstrating any potential vulnerabilities to Simon. 

“No? Hmm. Shame. I shall have to pay the young upstart a visit, I suppose. Though I _was_ going to do that anyway.” 

“Are you going to try and kill him?” asks Jon, not even deigning to acknowledge the “young upstart” comment. 

“Goodness, no!” Simon sounds honestly surprised at the question. “I just said this was fascinating, didn’t I? And besides, I can send people to so many new, awful places now! You know, there’s really something to be said for the power of the human mind to create its own downfall. The world is so wonderfully _responsive_ to people’s fear, now.” He sounds utterly sincere. Martin’s stomach churns. 

“Then, why—” 

“Why am I saying hello to you? Well, that’s a long and quite hilarious story, as it turns out.” Simon _winks_ at them. “But, since I know that you care for _expediency,_ I shall simply say that I followed a very helpful little spider.” 

Martin’s stomach drops into the vicinity of his knees. 

“Now,” Simon continues, “I think I shall ask a question of my own. Are you planning on trying to reverse all this? No—don’t bother answering, I do believe I know what you’ll say already.” He sighs. “A pity. I’m not entirely sure that this—” He waves his hand at their surroundings again. “—actually _can_ be undone. But if there were a person capable of it, I suppose it would be Jonah Magnus’s own pet Archivist.” Both Jon and Martin bristle, but Simon continues blithely. “I fear—ha—that I can’t let you do that. This is _far_ too interesting. No, I believe I shall have to put you someplace where you can’t do any damage.” 

Martin loses track of his stomach as it plummets past his toes. “No—wait—” he chokes out. Too late, he realizes that they’re in the worst possible place for this confrontation: the street stretches to eternity in both directions, the buildings seeming miles away on either side; the sky above, in contrast, is nearly close enough to touch. 

Simon _tsks_ at him. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten your distaste for roller coasters, however unfortunate. I’m planning something more old-fashioned. That dreadful Eye is in the way, but the sky _is_ still there, you know. And there’s quite a lot of it. Besides, I don’t need _you_ out of the picture. Just the Archivist.” 

Martin lunges forward, heart already turning into an icicle, but the regret he had felt after the encounter with Jared springs into his mind, and he hesitates. 

Just for an instant. He’ll never be sure if it made a difference or not. 

The fog rolls in, just as dense and choking as before, but this time, instead of a chill breeze, the wind is a howling gale that knocks him to the ground as Simon lifts a hand towards Jon. Martin can nearly taste Simon’s shock of instinctive fear as the Lonely takes him, decaying almost instantly into amused acceptance, and then his sense of other people is gone entirely. 

When the fog clears, Martin is alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: body horror (too many eyes), implied/ambiguous minor character death
> 
> Also, there are a few bits in here which parallel some aspects of the current social distancing/quarantine situation. I finished writing this in January, so the similarity is unintentional, but given the whole * _gestures broadly_ *, I thought I’d rather warn than not.
> 
> Virtual high five to anyone who figures out why this chapter is called Aphelion! Give me your theories!!


	11. Convergence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Daisy becomes more human, Basira tries her best to do the same, and everything starts coming together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [NevillesGran](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NevillesGran) for beta reading this chapter!
> 
> Content warnings in the end notes.

Being human again is disorienting. 

Daisy knows who she is now, of course. How could she forget, with Basira’s voice still ringing in her skull, sure and irrefutable, reminding her of all she’d forgotten? But she’s out of practice at a lot of things, and it shows. Walking upright and using her hands both take more focus than they should, to compensate for her patchy muscle memory, and food smells distinctly wrong. It takes her all morning to figure out why, that first day after Basira brings her home. 

When she works out that it’s because the food isn’t scared of her, it kills her appetite for the rest of the day. She manages to choke down dinner, for Basira’s sake. But when she works up the nerve to confront Basira about her broken promise, that second evening, she’s secretly relieved for the chance to quit before she makes herself sick. 

Daisy isn’t sure exactly what Basira has been doing in her absence, but it almost certainly wasn’t hanging around the flat, trying to help Daisy get acclimated. She questions Basira about it the afternoon of her third day back as they sit together on the sofa, Basira reading, Daisy attempting to force her stiff fingers to remember how to sew as she re-hems a pair of Basira’s old trousers to fit herself.

“How long has it been?” she asks. “Since I... left?” 

Basira’s eyes unfocus briefly. “A little over two weeks since everything went haywire,” she says, looking back at Daisy. “And another three weeks before that since the attack on the Institute.” 

Daisy has to sit there for a minute, grappling with the disappearance of five weeks of her life. Well. Five _more_ weeks. She’s an old hand at losing time to the Fears, now. 

Eventually, she shakes herself out of it and asks, “What were you doing all that time? I remember—I think I remember running into you, before you... got me out. But that—that wasn’t near the Institute, or even very near here, at least on foot. Were you just wandering, or...?” 

“No,” says Basira. “Or at least not aimlessly. I was mostly looking for you. Though I did have to take enough odd jobs to keep my food supplies up.”

“Odd jobs? Why?” 

“Well, the Institute isn’t exactly keeping up with the payroll anymore,” says Basira. “And the shops that haven’t closed only take cash, or only take cash at exorbitant prices, or don’t take cash at all, only goods or favors. I sort of accidentally picked up a good reputation during the first few days as a halfway decent bodyguard, so I’ve been doing a bit of that, just to keep the shelves stocked.” 

“Wait. Accidentally?” Daisy frowns, puzzled.

“I agreed to help someone out, they told their friends, and pretty soon I had a waiting list,” says Basira. “It’s not exactly what I would call a reliable income stream, but—” She shrugs. “It turns out I’m good at figuring out how to avoid most of the nastier fear… places. But it’s at least as much about just staying calm and letting them think I know what I’m doing as it is about actually defending anyone. People just want to feel safe, I guess.” 

“Makes sense,” says Daisy. And it does. Daisy can remember how, after she’d heard Jon’s voice in the coffin, the fear eating her alive had ebbed, just to be noticeable. Even though she hadn’t truly believed she would escape until she was out, the _idea_ of a rescue had been a comfort beyond words. 

“Why do you ask?” Basira inquires, jolting Daisy out of her thoughts. 

“Oh, just—just wondering if you were taking time from something else to stay with me,” says Daisy. 

“Nope,” says Basira, lightly bumping her shoulder into Daisy’s before going back to her book. 

Daisy tries to focus on the trouser hem she’s working on, but it’s too quiet to bear and the feeling of eyes on her back is rubbing her nerves raw. Finally, when the clock reads two p.m., she gives in and digs Basira’s aging hand-crank emergency radio out from under a pile of clutter. 

“It’s Saturday,” Basira tells her as she begins turning the handle. 

“Hmm?” 

“No Archers on today. It’s Saturday. Plus, you know.” Basira waves her hand vaguely at the window. 

Daisy groans and drops her head against the back of the sofa before resuming her task. “Just going to put on some background noise, then. How’s the reporting on the apocalypse been going?” 

“Badly,” says Basira, turning a page. “Nobody knows what’s going on. Loads of people pretending, but I haven’t heard anybody get it right yet. Conspiracy theorists are having a field day, of course.”

“You didn’t try and, I dunno, send in an anonymous tip or something?” Daisy fiddles with the knob, trying to remember the frequency of a local news station she’d liked from her police days. 

“With what time?” says Basira. “I was looking for you. Besides—” 

The rest of what Basira had been about to say is cut off by an ear-splitting staticky whine from the radio. Daisy lunges for the volume knob, but just as quickly as it had started, the whine cuts out, replaced by a voice. 

The ringing in Daisy’s ears is so loud it takes her a minute to realize what she’s hearing. When she does, she nearly chokes with surprise. “Is that—is that _Melanie’s girlfriend?”_

“And Jon’s ex,” says Basira, rubbing her ears. “I ran into her a few times when Jon was—wait a minute.” She holds up her hand to quiet Daisy, too. 

Now that they’re not talking over the radio, they can both hear the words, partially obscured by strangely shifting static but still audible: “—continue our detailed discussion of the Fears with a deep dive—pardon the pun—into the one we call the Vast. Like the others, it has a few names; the Falling Titan is one. It mainly manifests in big open spaces and the upper floors of tall buildings, from what we’ve been hearing, but we’ve also had confirmed sightings—” 

“Confirmed sightings? Confirmed by who?” Daisy splutters. 

“And how does she know all this?” adds Basira. Before Daisy has a chance to say anything, she answers her own question. “Wait. Melanie, obviously. Though Jon also filled her in on some of it.” 

The back of Daisy’s neck prickles. “Basira, how did you know that?” 

“Hmm?” Basira glances over. She isn’t blinking, Daisy realizes uneasily. 

“How did you know where—what’s her name? Georgie?—where Georgie’s getting her information?” 

Basira tilts her head slightly, still unblinking. “Where else could she have gotten it?” When Daisy says nothing else, she turns her oddly intense gaze back to the radio. After a minute or two of listening in silence (Melanie is discussing the finer points of telling apart the Vast and the Spiral) as the prickling on the back of Daisy’s neck gets more insistent, Basira starts talking again. “They’ve been doing this show for—almost a week. They’ve been getting picked up by a lot of radio stations because they’re the only people who sound like they know what they’re doing. We’re listening to a rerun right now. And the confirmed sightings are from their listeners. They have a—they have _several_ phone numbers that they’re going to list at the end.” 

Some tense, close feeling in the air abruptly lessens, and Basira slumps back into the sofa, rubbing her face. Daisy is relieved to see that she’s closed her eyes. 

Daisy thinks back to how it felt when Basira dragged her mind back out of whatever corner of her skull it had been hiding in and mentally kicks herself. It hadn’t registered before, amidst all of the disorientation and exhaustion, but it had felt somehow very similar to when Jon had pried a statement out of her about the coffin, so long ago. Or—and she flinches internally even as she recognizes the truth—like Elias telling her about her own childhood. It had been as though the voice of her thoughts had been temporarily supplanted by a much louder voice from outside. 

“Basira...” She hesitates, not sure how much to say, or even really what to ask. “I didn’t realize that you’d developed new, er, abilities,” she settles on at last. 

“Mmm? Oh. That. Yes, I... yeah. I figured out, a week or two after you’d... gone, that if I developed what I already had a little more, that I could, er. That I could bring you back.” She shifts a bit, clearly recalling yesterday’s conversation. 

Daisy takes a deep breath. “You don’t think that’s, well, a bit dangerous?” 

“Of course I know it’s dangerous,” says Basira crossly. She softens. “It’s not... great. But I’m in control. I even have a plan to wean myself off. I’m not going to... to turn into something.” 

“Good,” says Daisy, relieved. 

“In the meantime, though,” Basira continues, undercutting Daisy’s relief ever so slightly, “We might as well use the information I’ve already got.” 

“Which is?” 

“We could use some allies,” says Basira. “And Melanie and Georgie? They’re looking for us, right now. And I know where they are.” 

* * *

It takes a surprisingly long time to make it to Melanie and Georgie. Basira is able to keep track of their position with relative ease—their trajectory through the streets is clear as day in her mind’s eye—but while she and Daisy are headed straight for them, Melanie and Georgie clearly don’t know where to look, and are thus wandering more or less aimlessly. Under more normal circumstances, that wouldn’t be a problem, but several very dangerous manifestations manage to get in their way on the trip over. 

When they’re only three blocks away, Basira has to yank Daisy down an alleyway to avoid a person who Basira’s pretty sure is a full Stranger avatar: their skin looks suspiciously like plastic, their expressions are hollow imitations of the real thing, and there’s something _off_ about the way they’re moving. 

But not _off_ in a too-perfect sort of way, or even in an almost-right-but-not-quite sort of way. Their gait is dramatically unnatural, almost like—

Basira abruptly realizes that she’s chasing a hunch. Her conversation with Daisy from earlier that day swims to the forefront of her consciousness. She’s trying to wean herself off of the Eye’s influence. She doesn’t need to figure out what’s going on here, and shouldn’t try. 

...But the strange probably-avatar is still close by, still a potential threat. Just a little peep wouldn’t hurt, and then she’ll be prepared, just in case—

Basira stops that train of thought in its tracks. She’s rewarded with a nearly instant skull-splitting headache, as the pressure to investigate the hunch builds. As if the pain isn’t enough, she can feel her mind trying to revisit that thought. It would be easy to let go, just a little bit, just enough to reach the next little realization in the chain, and maybe the pain will lessen, if there’s less unrealized knowledge pressing against her skull.

Basira digs in her metaphorical heels. She _will_ keep her promise. She _will._

After a minute or two, the immediacy of the hunch fades enough that she can get up and lead Daisy onward, though the pain is still very present. She has to take a few seconds to steady herself before she turns the last corner. 

“Melanie! Georgie!” she calls out, wincing internally at the noise, and watches as they both hastily spin around. Georgie leans over to say something quietly to Melanie, and then they both rush forward to meet each other. 

* * *

Once Basira explains that she has a supernaturally-caused headache, Melanie and Georgie are willing to keep the noise down as the four make their way back to Basira’s flat, which turns out to be significantly closer than Georgie and Melanie’s place. Basira is relieved to find that the difficulties that plagued their initial expedition don’t recur on the return journey. She’s too exhausted and tense to keep much of a lookout, so it’s lucky that nothing bothers them. 

As soon as she’s through the door, Basira immediately downs as many paracetamol tablets as she dares. Then, at Daisy’s dirty look, she chases them with a glass of water. That done, she sits down on her trusty sofa as the others settle in. The sofa doesn’t groan in protest, for once. Maybe it’s getting used to this kind of treatment, she thinks with a snort, and then waves off Georgie’s questioning look. 

“So, erm,” says Melanie, the overhead light glinting off the clear plastic of her probably-temporary prosthetics. “How exactly did you know we were looking for you?” 

“Hunch,” says Basira. 

“What, really?” Melanie scoffs. “You just— _guessed?”_

“No. I have—I call them hunches. It’s sort of like what Jon could do, except a little less—out of the blue, I guess? I have to have at least some background information first, or at least hear the right clue. The reason I know you were looking is that we heard your radio show.” 

“Really? What station?” Georgie asks, then follows it up with, “No, sorry, not important, carry on.” 

“Sort of the end of the story,” says Basira, rubbing her face. An idea strikes her. “I’ll be back in a minute.” She goes to rummage in her closet for the lightest scarf she can find. 

When she returns, Daisy is saying, “—and then I remembered who I was. Sort of a mindfuck, honestly—I keep forgetting I’m missing time. My memories of—of being a Hunter feel more like a dream than something that actually happened. What are you doing?” She directs the last sentence at Basira, who is busy winding the scarf around her eyes. 

“Blindfold,” says Basira. “I’m hoping it’ll help.” 

“Is it?” asks Daisy, sounding anxious. 

“A little,” says Basira. The pressure is significantly reduced with something holding her eyes closed, but now she has to resist the temptation to take it off. She tucks her hands under her legs. 

She tunes out the conversation for a bit, headache still bad enough to make it difficult to focus. But her attention is snatched by Melanie saying, “Well, since Jon’s probably dead—” 

“What? Jon isn’t dead,” says Basira, trying to remember how the conversation got there. Something about Elias, she thinks. “At least, I don’t think so. Where else could the tape recorders be coming from? They only really appeared around him.” 

“Tape recorders?” ask Melanie and Georgie in unison. Basira flinches and makes a wordless sound of pain, and Melanie continues in a softer tone, “Sorry. But—you’ve been seeing tape recorders?” 

“Yeah, every night,” says Basira. “They only turn on for a minute or two, usually a couple of hours after sunset. Eye-set? After dark.” 

“I got them sometimes, I think,” Daisy adds. “I have no idea whether it was happening regularly or not—I didn’t have the best handle on time. Still don’t, even in retrospect. It’s all fuzzy. But it definitely happened at least once, and I think there were a few other times besides. You haven’t been getting them?” 

“No,” says Georgie. “And the nightmares have stopped, too, come to think of it. Why would the recorders appear for both of you and not either of us?” 

“Maybe he’s trying not to watch us,” says Melanie. “You did tell him off pretty forcefully.” 

“Or maybe he just can’t,” says Georgie. “Though—now I think about it, they did pop up a few times when he was staying with me, during the whole murder investigation. And you were able to see us just now, too.” 

“We’re off topic,” says Melanie. “Jon isn’t here; we are. Are we going to try and do anything about Elias?” 

“Jonah,” Basira corrects her. 

There’s a shifting sound, as though a person or two have abruptly turned to face her. “What?” asks Melanie. 

“Elias is Jonah Magnus,” says Basira. “We figured it out, about a month ago? Apparently he’s been bodyhopping since the 1800s.” 

There’s a beat of silence. 

“What the _fuck,”_ says Melanie with feeling, as Georgie asks, “Wait, _seriously?”_

Basira claps her hands over her ears and breathes in and out a few times. When she removes her hands, she says, “Unfortunately, yes, I am serious.” 

_“Can_ we do anything about him, then?” Melanie wonders aloud. 

“I think, if we destroy his eyes, then he’ll either die or at least lose a lot of his power,” says Basira. 

“Do we know where he is?” asks Daisy. 

“Probably the Institute, at least, if not the spooky tower itself,” Basira replies. “I don’t know exactly sure how we’ll be able to get up there, not to mention the fact that he’ll most likely see us coming, but—” 

“Wait,” Georgie interrupts. She pauses, taking a breath. “How do we know that—that if he dies, or whatever, that it will actually make things better?” Someone must give her a look, because she adds defensively, “Think about it! How do we know that we won’t just destabilize the whole situation without solving anything? He’s been around for what, 200 years? And in all that time, it took Jon getting involved with the Institute before anything happened. I mean, I agree that Elias—or Jonah—that he _deserves_ whatever it is you’re planning, but I don’t think it’s a good idea to just rush in.” 

There’s a silence as they all digest that. Finally, Basira says, “You have a point.” 

“Still, though!” says Melanie. “I can’t imagine that, whatever effect he’s having, that it’s a _good_ one!” 

“Melanie—” Georgie, again. 

“I’m not—I’m not angry. Well, I mean, I’m angry, but I’m not _angry._ I don’t—as odd as this feels to say, I don’t really want to kill him. I don’t want him to be _alive,_ but I don’t want to—I don’t want to hold the knife anymore.” She takes an unsteady breath. “But I think—I really, honestly think—that getting rid of him is our best bet to, well. Fix this. It has to mean something that his Institute suddenly sprouted the most noticeable landmark for miles, right? Especially since the sky is, you know. Like that.” 

“I may... have a way to know for sure,” says Basira. 

“Basira...” says Daisy. “I thought—I thought you wanted to stop doing that.” 

“I do,” says Basira. “I do. But if we really are talking about fixing the entire world, then we should make sure our information is good. Right?” 

There’s another pause. Then—

“If you’re talking about your hunch thing, I don’t think you should use it,” says Georgie. “As far as I can tell, the only thing these Fears have ever given anyone is grief. I also think that killing, or otherwise incapacitating, this Magnus is a bit far-fetched, but I don’t have as much first-hand experience, so I’ll defer to all of you on that. But—I mean, Basira, I just saw you swallow a whole handful of painkillers because of how badly it was hurting you not to go figure out something you said wasn’t important, and you also said you’re not as powerful as Jon was. Is. Was. Whatever.” 

Basira notices one of her hands sneaking up towards the knot on the blindfold, and very deliberately puts it back in her lap.

There’s a faint sound, possibly Georgie rubbing her face with her hands. “Listen. Let’s do what we can. If that means going after Magnus, then… fine. But if you want my advice? Don’t dig yourself deeper into the hole unless you have absolutely no other choice.” 

“Ugh. You’re right, of course,” says Basira, reaching up to carefully rub her eyes through the fabric. “I think this thing wants me to use it. It’s messing with my head.” Daisy hesitantly puts an arm around her shoulders and tugs her to rest against her side. It’s unexpected, but Basira is grateful for it anyway. 

“They do that,” says Melanie sagely. Daisy doesn’t say anything, but Basira can feel the movement of her head as she nods. 

“Somehow, I don’t think we’re going to get much else done this evening, and it _is_ getting late,” says Georgie dryly. “Shall we head home, and plan to meet up again tomorrow?” 

“Probably a good idea,” says Daisy. “But—are we going to commit to this? To getting rid of Magnus, even if we’re not sure of the repercussions? Or are we just—discussing?” 

“I think...” says Basira, hesitating. Then her resolve firms. “I’ll commit to it. If there’s any chance that that might fix this, I think I have an obligation to see it through.” 

None of them can argue with that. 

* * *

Basira offers somewhat halfheartedly to walk with them part of the way back, but when Georgie explains that she and Melanie are probably safer traveling alone than Basira would be on the return journey, she’s happy to fold. 

So she and Daisy are alone in the flat when, several hours later, Daisy asks worriedly, “You said you get the tape recorders every night, right?” 

“Yeah, a few hours after dark, like I said. Why?” 

“It’s been at least three hours since dark, and I haven’t heard one,” says Daisy. 

Basira’s stomach sinks. “I didn’t hear one either,” she says. 

“Do you think—” 

“Let’s check the ones I have lying around,” says Basira hastily. “Maybe we both just missed it.” 

But she’s been methodical about removing the cassettes from the recorders every time she finds a new one, and after half an hour of searching, she’s forced to admit that all the recorders in the house are empty. Daisy watches with dark eyes. 

Finally, Basira turns to her. “I think I can probably figure out what happened to him,” she says. It’s an understatement; her own curiosity has already started poking her behind the eyes. She will probably need the blindfold again before the night is done. 

“Are you asking me if you should?” asks Daisy, an edge in her voice. 

“After all this, I trust him even less,” says Basira. “Besides, he’s your friend, but he’s not exactly mine—” 

“Don’t do that,” snaps Daisy. “I won’t ask you to chase a hunch for me, and you know it. Don’t use me as an excuse for your own decisions.” 

Basira’s stomach sinks further. “Sorry,” she says quietly. 

Daisy sighs. “Just—don’t do it again. What can we do that doesn’t involve—that?” 

Basira takes a breath to answer, but before she can, there’s a knock at the door. She and Daisy both turn to look at it in unison. 

“Who is it?” Basira calls out, cautiously. Maybe it’s a neighbor, asking her for help at some inconvenient hour again—

“It’s me,” comes Martin’s voice, sounding muffled and choked. “Please—I don’t know what to do—” 

Basira and Daisy exchange a guarded look, but they both head towards the door. Basira looks through the peephole. It does in fact look to be Martin, and he’s alone, as far as she can tell. 

Slowly, she opens the door, half-braced for an attack. None comes. She opens the door wider. 

Seeing Martin again is a shock. The last time Basira saw him, he had only just gotten free of the Lonely; now, he looks like he’s on the verge of slipping back in. He’s a mess, pale and washed-out, and there’s a sort of blankness in his deeply-shadowed eyes that she doesn’t like. He doesn’t say anything or make any move to come inside, just stares at her exhaustedly, as if he didn’t expect her to actually come to the door but is too tired to be surprised that she did. There are glistening tear tracks down his face. 

“Are you coming in?” asks Basira, still on guard. 

Martin blinks at her before crossing the threshold. As he does, a faint white mist creeps in as well. Looking out, Basira realizes that it’s blanketing the entire corridor, knee-deep. 

Daisy edges back from the mist, retreating to the sofa, an unhappy set to her face. Basira scowls at Martin. “Can you send the fog somewhere else, please?” 

“Sorry,” he says, cringing. “I can’t—I don’t have any control over it. Sorry.” 

Basira sighs and goes over to sit next to Daisy, making sure their sides brush so that she’ll have the comfort of another person. Martin doesn’t sit. Instead, he just stands awkwardly in front of the doorway, wringing his hands. 

“What happened?” asks Basira. 

“Jon—he’s gone—” A fresh wave of tears courses down his face, and the fog swirls as if stirred by a breeze.

Basira bites back a sharp retort. “Where? How?” 

“We were—we were on our way here, to meet up with you, because we thought, we thought maybe, between the two of us and the two of you, we could work out some way to, to fix everything? But then Simon came out of nowhere—” 

“Simon?” asks Daisy. 

“Simon Fairchild, Vast avatar,” says Basira, then frowns. She very deliberately puts her palms over her eyes. “Go on.” 

“He pulled some kind of trick so that Jon wouldn’t see him coming,” says Martin, voice trembling over Jon’s name. “He was just—he was just there, all of a sudden, and—and it all happened so quickly then. We didn’t have time to come up with a plan, or anything.” 

“And he put Jon in the Vast?” asks Basira, eyes still tightly shut. 

“Y—yes.” There’s a loud sniffle from Martin’s direction. 

“Why didn’t he send you there, too?” 

“I... I might have, um. Accidentally pushed him into the Lonely—” 

_”Accidentally?”_ Basira drops her hands from her face to stare at Martin, who hunches his shoulders even more. 

“I didn’t mean to! It just sort of... happened. I mean, I guess I could have stopped, but I was—I was so _scared,_ and I thought, at least that way he wouldn’t be able to hurt Jon, but I was too slow—”

Basira groans and covers her eyes again. “Never mind. Just tell me this: why are you here, and how did you know how to find us?” 

“Jon told me your address,” says Martin. “And—I don’t know if you can help. But I—there’s nobody else I could even ask. I don’t know—I don’t know what to _do.”_

Basira takes a deep breath. “One second. I need to think.” 

Trying to reason through the problem without opening her mind to unasked-for knowledge is hard. But after a few minutes of mentally treading on eggshells, she has the beginnings of an idea. "All right," she says. "This is what we're going to do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: canon-typical difficulty in resisting using one’s powers.
> 
> I solemnly swear this is the last cliffhanger.


	12. A Story and a Second Chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a visit, an explanation, and a reconciliation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [Marianne_Dashwood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marianne_Dashwood), [NevillesGran](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NevillesGran), and [smallhorizons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallhorizons) for beta reading this chapter!
> 
> Content warnings in the end notes. (This chapter is probably as graphic as this fic is going to get, just fyi.)

When Georgie and Melanie get to the studio the morning after meeting up with Basira and Daisy, there’s a pair of messages waiting for them.

“Wait.” Georgie pinches the bridge of her nose. “Basira called at half midnight to ask about manifestations of the Vast near her flat? And then called again an hour later saying that Jon and Martin had turned up?” 

“Yes,” says Angus. “So you _do_ know her?” 

“She’s a colleague,” says Melanie. “Well. Ex-colleague. Friend?” She turns to Georgie. “D’you think we should go and visit?” 

Georgie bites her lip. “I want to do today’s broadcast first, at least,” she says. 

“Should we at least call?” 

“Honestly?” Georgie sighs. “I’d rather know as little as possible beforehand. It’ll just distract me if I know the details, and I don’t want to be distracted. This is too important.” 

“All right,” says Melanie easily enough. 

* * *

Georgie is glad, afterwards, that she’d decided to wait. If she’d known the whole story, she _definitely_ would have been too preoccupied to record. 

“I’m sorry,” she says. “For a moment, I could have sworn you said that Jon _fell out of orbit and landed on your roof.”_

“I did say that, and he did,” comes Basira’s voice over the crackly speakerphone. 

“Orbit of _the planet?”_

“As far as we can tell, yes.” 

“Did he—did he have a spacesuit? Or a parachute?” asks Melanie, sounding both horrified and as though she’s about to burst out laughing. 

“Nope.” 

“How the _fuck_ did he get up there?” asks Georgie, glad she’s already sitting down. 

“Simon Fairchild, apparently,” says Basira, as though that should mean something. 

“Yikes,” says Melanie. “Why did he pick a fight with Fairchild?” 

“Apparently, he didn’t mean to,” Daisy chimes in from the other end. “Hi, by the way.” 

“Hi, Daisy,” says Melanie. “Just checking—are you absolutely _sure_ he’s still alive?” 

“Well, he’s breathing, and he’s been writing notes to Martin all morning, so—” 

“Why’s he been writing notes?” asks Georgie. 

There’s a hiss from the phone as someone takes a deep breath. “Well, remember how he didn’t have a spacesuit?” says Basira. “He can’t really talk right now. Or move, or do much of anything. Even the writing seems to be a struggle. Honestly, if it weren’t for the breathing, I would’ve thought he was a corpse when he turned up. It was... not pretty.” 

Georgie winces. 

“Anyway,” says Basira. “I mostly called so that you could decide whether you still wanted to come over today. I don’t have a spare room, so he’s sort of camped out on my sofa. We would have brought him back to Martin’s place, but it didn’t seem like a good idea to try and move him just yet. Anyway. Offer’s open, up to you.” 

“We’ll... we’ll think about it,” says Georgie. “Just—tell me one thing. Do you think he did—all this?” 

There’s a brief pause. Then Basira says, “Honestly? No. I don’t think so. Or at least, I don’t think it was at all on purpose, though he _was_ definitely involved. Martin’s been very insistent that it wasn’t his fault at all—” 

“D’you really think _Martin_ is the best judge?” asks Melanie. “I mean, _I_ don’t think he did it either, but I’m just saying.” 

“No, I don’t think he’s a good judge of Jon’s actions, but from what he’s been saying, it does seem to have been something that was done _to_ Jon, rather than something he _did.”_ Basira sighs. “And also... Listen. There’s just no way he would have deliberately put Martin into this kind of danger. I’ll be the first to say that he makes terrible decisions, but honestly? This is the wrong sort of terrible for it to have been him.” 

“All right,” says Georgie. “We’ll think about it.” 

* * *

“What do you think?” asks Melanie as they walk home. 

“About which part?” replies Georgie. 

“I dunno. Any of it, I guess.” 

Georgie tilts her head back and glares at the stupid eyeball for as long as she can before spots start dancing in her vision. “I don’t know. It feels like—like we _just_ started to get settled into doing some real good, and now Jon’s back and everything’s upside down again.” She groans. “If he could stop causing chaos for, for _two seconds,_ I think I’d be a lot better disposed towards him.” 

“Is that a no, then? To going and visiting?” 

“No? I mean, maybe. I’m...” She pauses to put her thoughts in order. “I think that it’s probably an encouraging sign that we didn’t have tape recorders popping up left and right, even though Basira did.” She sighs. “What do you want to do?” 

“I want to go,” says Melanie without hesitation. “I... I never visited him, when he was in hospital with that coma. I mean, not that that made a difference to _him,_ probably, but...” She fidgets, squeezing Georgie’s hand. “Is that... are _you_ okay with going over with me?” 

“...Yes,” says Georgie. “Yes, I think I am.” 

* * *

Georgie has to pause outside Basira and Daisy’s door. Her thoughts have been whirling the whole trip over. She still doesn’t know what she’s going to say. 

“Georgie?” asks Melanie. 

“Sorry,” says Georgie. “Just—lost in thought.” She reaches up and raps her knuckles on the door before she can second-guess herself. 

“Who is it?” comes a muffled voice from inside. Daisy. 

“It’s us,” says Melanie. 

There are footsteps, and then the door swings open. Daisy looks—better than yesterday, actually. She still moves as if her whole body is sore, but the bags under her eyes are less bruised-looking, and she smiles faintly at the two of them. 

“Hey, good to see you,” she says. “Come in. Uh—word of warning? Jon’s got—sort of a lot of eyes, now. I don’t think we mentioned that over the phone.” 

“What do you mean, a lot of eyes?” asks Georgie, unsure how many more surprises she can take today. 

“Well—see for yourself,” says Daisy, and holds the door. 

Georgie has a strong stomach; she suspects her lack of fear helps, but she was definitely hard to disgust even before uni and everything that happened there. So it surprises her when, upon laying eyes on the pitiful figure on the sofa, bile rises in the back of her throat. 

The sofa has been pulled out into a bed, and Jon is propped up in it, half-sitting, a sheet draped over him from armpit to shin. Martin is perched beside him, fingertips petting the very ends of his ragged gray hair—probably the only way to touch him without causing pain, considering how he looks. Every visible inch of Jon’s skin is inflamed and puffy, and he’s covered in painful-looking blisters and bubbles. But it’s more than just inflammation; Georgie can spy bruises as well, further discoloring his skin. And there are dozens of tiny, dark creases scattered across his face, mingling with the old scars—cuts? 

No, she realizes, as two of them slide open. They’re eyelids. His whole face—and a good portion of the rest of him, as well—is covered in dozens of diminutive, closed, _faintly glowing_ eyes, paying absolutely no heed to normal human anatomy. 

“Oh, Jon,” she says, weakly and almost involuntarily. 

One of his hands flaps weakly in her direction, a hollow parody of a wave. 

Behind her, she can hear Daisy quietly describing the extent of Jon’s injuries to Melanie, but the words don’t really register. Two of Jon’s eyes stay fixed on her as she walks forwards, in a daze. Strictly speaking, the bruises and burns are not much worse than his injuries had been when he’d first fallen into his coma, but knowing that he’s awake this time makes it much worse, and the eyes add a completely new level of horror. Now that she’s close enough to get a good look, she can see that the tiny ones watching her from his cheek are swollen and bloodshot. 

When she moves to sit on the edge of the mattress beside him, Martin stirs slightly, glancing away from Jon’s face for the first time since she came in. “Be—please be careful?” he says softly. “He’s—he’s in a lot of pain, and it hurts him when the sheet moves—” 

“Oh! Of course,” says Georgie. “Daisy, can I pull up a chair?” 

“Sure,” says Daisy. “Here, Melanie, want me to grab one for you too?” 

“Yes, thanks.” 

Daisy pulls up a chair for herself, too, and they all gather next to Jon, whose eyes, Georgie realizes, are tracking them all individually, one or two to a person. There’s about half a dozen of them looking at Martin, who seems totally unbothered by this eerie display, still gently stroking Jon’s hair. Georgie blinks. 

“Did you two get _engaged?”_ she asks, incredulous. 

“Huh? Oh, yeah,” says Martin, a ghost of a smile on his face as he glances down at the ring on his hand. “Two days ago, actually.” 

“In the middle of _this?”_ squawks Melanie. “Seriously?” 

“Yes,” says Martin primly. “It was very romantic and sweet.” 

Jon flops his hand around, and Martin reaches over to the table beside the sofa to pick up a notepad and pen. He flips to a new page—Georgie spies the words “thank you” on the previous one—and holds it out so that Jon can write in it. 

_He had to tell me to ask properly,_ writes Jon in a clumsy scrawl that’s lightyears from his normal neat cursive. _I tried to get away with just giving him the ring._

Martin snorts. “You did, didn’t you,” he says fondly. “Jon says that I had to tell him to ask me properly, because he tried to get away with just handing me a ring,” he adds for Melanie’s benefit, before turning back to Jon. “But the important part is that you got there,” he says, teasing.

That startles a laugh out of Georgie, and Melanie as well. Daisy chuckles, and even Jon smiles, though his shallow, wheezing breaths don’t alter. 

“So,” says Melanie, once it’s quiet again. “What... _happened,_ exactly? And I don’t mean just you getting hurt, Jon. Do you know what started all of this?” 

“Mind if I...?” Martin murmurs in an undertone to Jon, who shakes his head minutely. “All right. I... I don’t know how caught up you are,” he says to Melanie. “What’s the last thing you remember from the Institute?” Basira pokes her head in from the next room, and comes to lean in the doorway, listening along. 

“You were being all weird and distant and working with Lukas,” says Melanie. “I remember—Jon came by, once, a few weeks after I quit but before everything went wrong—” Georgie fights down a surge of stale anger at the memory. “But he didn’t really tell us what was going on. Said that he was worried about you, or something?” 

“Was that right before the Lonely, Jon?” asks Martin, and Jon nods, just a twitch of his head. “All right. Well, just after he came to see you, he followed me and Peter Lukas to the middle of the tunnels underneath the Institute. There’s a ruin of an old prison, with a big tower in the middle—it got bigger since, you can actually see it from outside now. Anyway. Jonah Magnus was there—he’s been alive this whole time—” 

“Basira filled us in on that part,” says Melanie, and Georgie nods along. “She didn’t tell us exactly what happened, though.” 

“Well, he and Peter had some sort of bet going on, involving me,” says Martin. “I... refused to go through with it, and so Peter pushed me into the Lonely. My memories of the next bit are... fuzzy? But Jon followed me in.” His voice turns mushy, and Georgie is tempted to look away as he and Jon make eyes at each other for a few seconds. “And he made Peter tell him what was going on. Or—he tried to, but Peter actually managed to resist being asked.” 

“What? How?” asks Melanie. “I thought that was impossible.” 

“Well...” Martin bites his lip. “He didn’t... exactly survive?” 

“...Oh.”

Georgie’s gaze flicks back to Jon. The corners of his mouth have turned down, and he won’t meet her eye. _Well, it’s good he doesn’t look pleased about it,_ she thinks, somewhat queasily.

Martin’s shoulders hunch slightly, but he continues. “And then Jon got me out. It was—I’m not actually sure I can describe it? But he used his Beholding abilities to, to sort of—burn the fog out of my head. That’s not really what it was like at all, but I don’t think I’m going to get any closer with words.” He and Jon share another soft-eyed look. “And then we skipped town.” 

Georgie blinks. “Wait. What?” 

“Basira told them where to find an old hideout of mine in Scotland,” Daisy says. 

“We were there for three weeks,” says Martin. “Up until everything... happened.” 

“So you just... took a little holiday?” asks Melanie, disbelieving, before Georgie can get a chance to. “With the Extinction thing still going on and everything?” 

“Oh! No, we figured that out,” says Martin. “Or, we think we did, anyway? The evidence that Peter had, it turned out to be... circumstantial, at best.” 

“So there’s no Extinction,” says Melanie, uncertainly. 

“Well, there probably is _something_ emerging,” says Martin. “Or at least, _I_ don’t think it’s unlikely? But there’s basically nothing to suggest it’s going to be any different from the emergence of any of the others. Dekker certainly seemed to think it was an existential threat, but he never actually found anything conclusive.” 

“Huh.” Melanie leans back in her chair, digesting that. “Well. That’s a relief, I suppose. Though it’s a bit moot now, probably.” 

“I’m just surprised you took a break,” says Georgie, half a chuckle in her voice. “Were you planning on staying away just until the Institute was off the news, or...?” 

Jon flops his hand, and Martin holds up the notepad for him again. _Don’t know. Didn’t want to go back. Probably wouldn’t have gotten the choice though._

“What, really? After all your self-sacrifice shit _,_ a holiday was all it took?” asks Georgie, incredulous, before Martin has a chance to read the words aloud. “Oh—sorry, go ahead.”

As Martin reads from the paper, Jon answers her question. _We were pretty sure there was no immediate danger,_ he writes. _We could account for all the rituals, and they’d all failed._ He pauses, fingers momentarily going slack. _And I thought this way maybe I had a chance of living._ Martin sounds slightly choked as he reads the last line, but he finishes anyway. 

Georgie can feel a frustrated scowl creeping onto her face. She’d been right, then; Jon staying at the Institute and going along with all of it _had_ been pointlessly destructive. If he’d just _listened…_

And yet. _You’d prefer I was brain-damaged? Dead?_

_Would you go with me as well?_

Georgie remembers Basira’s cool, dismissive manner, the way Martin had suddenly stopped visiting the hospital, and Melanie’s descriptions of the miserable atmosphere in the archives, and wonders if that request had been more sincere—or more desperate—than she’d thought. An uneasy feeling makes itself known in the pit of her stomach.

“So what _happened?”_ says Melanie, interrupting her thoughts and reminding her that she hasn’t heard the full story yet. “If you didn’t want to do anything more, if you didn’t want to come back—what happened?” 

“Jonah Magnus happened,” says Martin. “Jon has to—or had to, I guess—read the statements, or he got sick. Basira sent us some, to tide him over, but one of them was a letter from Magnus with a fake cover page. It had an... invocation, of sorts, at the end.” 

“Wh—why not just _stop reading?”_ asks Georgie, too shocked to be properly furious. 

Jon makes a tiny sound of protest. “Shh, no,” says Martin hastily. “Please, you’ll hurt your lungs again.” Turning to Georgie, he says, “He can’t stop reading a statement once he’s started. He tried—he tried to claw out his own throat. He tried to claw out his _eyes.”_

Georgie looks back at Jon. Sure enough, there are new scars on his neck and face, nearly hidden beneath the burns. “Oh.” 

“It was like—” Jon whispers, in a voice as thin and fragile as a wisp of smoke. 

“Jon—” 

“Please,” he says to Martin, between wheezes. “I want to—I want to say it.” 

Martin subsides, but his expression is still anxious. Jon swallows a few times, scarred Adam’s apple bobbing. 

“It was like falling,” he croaks. “Like, no matter how much I tried not to resist gravity—or, rather, to stop reading—there was nothing I could do to make it stop. No—no way to arrest my momentum, nothing to _push_ against. I _tried_ —believe me, I did—but I wasn’t… I wasn’t strong enough. Or weak enough, I suppose.” 

Georgie’s eyes fall on the unfamiliar scars again, faded as though many years old rather than only a few weeks, and she winces. 

Jon pauses for a moment, breathing carefully, before continuing. “It was over the second I picked up that piece of paper. In fact—” He wheezes hard, and it takes a second for Georgie to realize that he’s laughing, without mirth. “It was over as soon as Magnus first saw me, I think. He knew exactly how to make me do—whatever he wanted. I could _feel_ the way he felt, while I was reading his statement, while he was explaining how it was he’d turned me into—this. It was—it was _easy.”_ His eyes close in a ripple, tears gathering in a dozen of them, and Georgie feels her own throat ache in response as his ragged breaths turn into a coughing fit.

She hadn’t been sure, when she’d agreed to come, that she wouldn’t end up storming out, furious all over again. She’s furious now, but in a completely different direction than she’d expected. Or—well, after everything Melanie had said after their expedition to the Institute, and after the bombshell of the previous day, she’s not exactly surprised to find herself angry at Elias _._ But the sight of one of her oldest friends—even one she’s frustrated and upset with—brought so low makes a rush of burning cold shoot through her veins, making it hard to breathe for a moment.

Georgie deliberately unclenches her hands and gives the feeling a moment to recede before tuning back into the conversation.

When she does, Martin’s hands are fluttering helplessly an inch from Jon’s seared cheeks. When Jon finally stops coughing and makes as if to speak again, Martin insistently holds up the pad of paper. 

_Sorry,_ Jon writes on the notepad. _Should have realized when we left that he wouldn’t let go so easily. Should have expected something like this._

“Jon,” groans Martin. “I’ve already told you, that wasn’t your _fault.”_ Jon underlines his last sentence twice. At Melanie’s grumble, Martin quickly relays the exchange to her. 

“Gotta say, I agree with Martin on this one,” says Melanie. “El— _Magnus_ is a piece of work. It’s not your fault you couldn’t stand up to him—or outwit him or whatever—on your own.” She hunches her shoulders slightly. The uneasy feeling in the pit of Georgie’s stomach rises again at the reminder of how isolated Melanie—and Jon—had been before leaving the Institute, and she reaches over to squeeze Melanie’s shoulder. She leans into the touch, but doesn’t say anything more. 

“So... how did you get to London, then?” asks Daisy, after a pause. 

“Walking, mostly,” says Martin. “Though we got a car near the end.” 

“Really? How?” asks Daisy, before Georgie has a chance. 

“Oh, Jared Hopworth.” 

Melanie chokes. Daisy snorts, but when Martin doesn’t elaborate, she sobers, saying, “Wait, you’re serious?” 

Martin nods, then says, “Yep. He tracked us down with Jon’s rib—” 

“With Jon’s _what?”_ Today has taken a strange turn, Georgie thinks, slightly dazed. 

Jon snorts, and Martin’s lips twitch. “Sorry,” says Martin. “I keep only realizing how things sound after I say them. Anyway, he threatened Jon, and I sort of... lost it, for a minute. It turns out that I can still access the Lonely, but only when I’m really, properly terrified.” He takes a shuddering breath. “So once he was gone, we found his car. Keys in the ignition and everything. That’s how we got the rest of the way here. That was two days ago. We ran afoul of Simon yesterday afternoon. I think that’s everything.” 

“And Simon is...?” asks Melanie. 

“The same as Jared,” says Martin, a touch uncomfortably. He shifts his shoulders. “What have you been doing? We caught a bit of your radio show the other day, but otherwise—well. We didn’t even know you were alive, before then.” 

“What, really?” Melanie’s eyebrows lift. “You didn’t think we could survive a little apocalypse?” 

Martin flushes and stutters something apologetic before he realizes that Melanie is teasing and rolls his eyes. Georgie snickers, as does Daisy, and even Basira chuckles quietly from where she’s still leaning against the doorway. 

The hours slip by as Georgie and Melanie take turns filling in the others on their escapades and the unexpected success of their show. By the time Daisy is done relating what little she remembers of her missing month, everyone’s stomachs are growling. 

Martin immediately offers to fix something, and he and Daisy vanish into the kitchen. Basira continues to lurk in the background, putting her blindfold on and taking it off in turns, while Melanie and Jon chat with Georgie’s assistance. They struggle a little to find a topic of conversation, but eventually manage to slip into a comfortable, if slow, back-and-forth banter. 

Georgie is surprised by how easy it all feels. She was prepared for spending time with Jon again to be draining, but instead it’s just… normal. He’s injured, sure, and the eyes are new and disturbing, but somehow, in spite of all that, the air between them feels clearer than it has in months. All his frenetic energy has vanished, along with a fair amount of his stubborn pride. Not all of it, of course; he wouldn’t be Jon without stubborn pride. But enough that spending time with him is uncomplicated, in a way it hasn’t been in a long, long time. 

Eventually, Jon and Melanie’s conversation reaches a lull, and she enlists Basira’s help in finding the kitchen so that she can catch up with everyone else. Jon fiddles with his pen, eyes downcast.

Eventually, he takes a deep, rattling breath, flips the page in his notebook, and writes, _I’m sorry._

A good deal of the comfortable ease drains out of the air around them. Georgie mulls over several possible responses before settling on, “For what?”

Jon starts to write something that looks suspiciously like _Everything_ , but then he scribbles it out and writes, slow and deliberate, _For dragging you into this. For taking you for granted. For not listening. I was awful to you and I’m sorry._

And, well. It’s not rainbows and unicorns; the sun doesn’t suddenly come out from where it’s been hiding. But it feels better to have those words. A _lot_ better.

“I appreciate you saying that,” she says. “Really. I do.” _I forgive you,_ she doesn’t say, because she’s not sure it’s true. At least not yet. “I’m glad you made it out, eventually,” she says instead.

The corner of Jon’s mouth twitches up into a half-smile. _I am too,_ he writes. But his expression turns bitter, and he adds, _Though it didn’t make much of a difference, in the end._

Georgie sighs and reminds herself silently that he wouldn’t be Jon without the pessimism, either. “Even so. I’m glad you chose to leave it all behind. It’s… it sounds like it was pretty thoroughly not your fault that the whole mess caught up with you again afterwards.”

Tears drip down Jon’s face from a handful of places. _Thank you,_ he writes, his hand trembling.

“And while we’re on the subject of apologies…” Georgie rubs her face. “I’m sorry I was so cold to you when you woke up. It sounds like… well. That was probably the exact opposite of what you needed, right then.”

Jon’s response is so hasty it’s nearly illegible. _You don’t need to apologize for that. You were right to try and get away from me._

Georgie shrugs, the pit of her stomach still vaguely unsettled. “Melanie told me, afterwards, that isolation made what she had worse. I could’ve found a way to tell you I needed space that didn’t make you feel like I was disappointed you hadn’t _died.”_

Jon composes and scratches out half a dozen responses before finally writing, _I refused to take your advice and then blew up a museum. I don’t blame you for being upset. Besides, it’s in the past, and you’re here now._ He smiles, small and tentative, and Georgie smiles back.

They don’t talk much for a while, then, but the silence is comfortable rather than strained.

* * *

When Daisy and Martin announce that dinner is ready, the six of them end up in a roughly circular arrangement in the sitting room: Jon remains on the sofa, Martin draws up an additional chair, and Georgie and Daisy scoot their chairs back to bring Basira’s recliner into the group. They all balance plates of pasta on their knees, except for Jon; he doesn’t eat anything, but Martin helps him sit up against some pillows and sip from a glass of water, hands painfully gentle. Even accounting for Jon’s current state, conversation is slightly awkward—Georgie is a bit of an outsider, and she suspects that the rest of them didn’t have a lot of experience conversing outside of work—but in the end it’s still pleasant. 

After they’re done, Georgie and Melanie start preparing for the trip back. Jon’s breathing has improved greatly over the course of the day, and when he speaks now, most of the roughness is gone from his voice. 

“I’m sorry, Melanie. And Georgie.” Martin opens his mouth, probably to protest, but Jon holds up a hand. “Not—about that. I’m sorry that I tried to involve you, before, after you told me to stop. It was wrong of me.” 

“Thanks,” says Melanie, a little terse, but sincere. Georgie just nods. 

“Thank you for—for coming to see me,” he says. “This is a lot nicer than—last time.” 

“Last time?” asks Melanie. 

Jon shrugs, picking at a stray thread on the sheet. “Waking up in the hospital, I mean. It’s good to have f—people who’re happy to see me.” 

“Of course.” A small smile steals onto Georgie’s face, sad but also fond. “You’re my friend,” she says, and means it. 

* * *

“It’s weird, you know,” Melanie mumbles into the pillow the next morning, apropos of nothing. 

“Hmm?” Georgie props herself up on one elbow, admiring the way the sunlight plays across Melanie’s face. 

“We keep calling what happened _the apocalypse_ or _the end of the world._ But it isn’t, really, is it?” She rolls onto her back, pulling her hair out of her face, and stretches with a yawn before continuing. “I mean, we’re still here. And I, for one, am not even as afraid of all of this crap as before. So what’s really over?” 

“Mmm. You have a point.” Georgie’s arm is already getting tired. She lets her head _thump_ back onto the pillow, and cautiously takes Melanie’s hand. When Melanie doesn’t pull away, Georgie starts gently massaging the back of her palm. 

Melanie doesn’t say anything more for a while, or move except to switch hands after a few minutes. Eventually, Georgie asks, “Any reason you’re concerned with semantics this morning?” 

“Not really. I’ve just been thinking about it for a while.” Melanie yawns again. “I guess what brought it on is that—that I’m really. Er. Happy with you.” 

Georgie scoots closer, careful to make plenty of rustling noises with the sheets, and drapes an arm across Melanie’s stomach. “I’m glad. I’m really happy with you, too.” 

Melanie squirms, eager as always to move on from the suddenly mushy atmosphere. “Anyway. I just—it seemed weird to keep acting like this is the end of everything when really it’s just... I dunno. Different. Scary, sure, but not... Well. The end of the world.” The corner of her mouth quirks up. 

“Can I kiss you?” asks Georgie. 

Melanie snorts. “Sap.” 

“And proud of it. Was that a no?” 

“That was a _brush your teeth first.”_

So Georgie drags herself out of bed to freshen up, Melanie close behind, and if it takes a little while longer to get out of the house than usual, well, that’s nobody’s business but their own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: severe non-fatal injuries (bruising, damaged skin, damaged lungs), coughing and difficulty breathing (not POV character), vaguely described past self-harm and eye trauma
> 
> Want to make my day? Tell me what part of this chapter was your favorite!


	13. Solace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a number of important conversations are had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I will post every Saturday around 9:30 for Consistency," I said. You know, like a liar.
> 
> Thanks to [NevillesGran](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NevillesGran) for beta reading this chapter!
> 
> Content warnings in the end notes.

Martin wakes with an arm draped over Jon’s side. He smiles and noses at the back of Jon’s neck, still drowsy. Then the memories of the last two days come rushing back, and he jerks away. “Oh—Jon, I’m so sorry—” 

“It’s all right,” murmurs Jon. His voice is still hoarse, but he’s regained much of the rich, deep sound that had first captured Martin’s attention, nearly four years ago. “I’m feeling a lot better.” 

Martin pulls back to get a better look as Jon rolls onto his back. The bruises that had covered his whole body have faded from livid purple to a sickly yellow, and the blisters have all but vanished. His many eyes are still reddish at the corners, but significantly less so than yesterday. 

“Oh,” says Martin softly, and smiles. “That’s good.” He reaches out to touch Jon’s hair like he did yesterday, but Jon has different ideas, ducking under Martin’s hand and pressing close against his chest. Martin feels his face turn pink. He’s not sure he’ll ever get used to Jon’s particular style of casual affection. He is sure he’ll never be able to take it for granted. 

“Thank you,” murmurs Jon, his breath warm against the side of Martin’s neck. 

“For what?” 

“For—yesterday. And the night before.” 

“Wh—You don’t need to thank me for that, Jon.” Martin carefully presses a hand to the side of Jon’s head. His hair is dry and frizzy, cracking at the ends from exposure to the sun. Martin’s guilt, smothered by the activity and stress of the previous day, begins to well up in earnest. “If anything, I should’ve been able to get you out faster—” 

“Martin, no,” says Jon. “You did exactly the right thing. You saved me.” There’s a smile in his voice, but Martin suddenly feels like screaming at the thought of Jon, trapped in the vacuum of space, unable to even pass out properly. No wonder he had been so disoriented when he had fallen from the sky. It’s an absolute miracle he hadn’t been hurt _much_ worse when he hit the ground. 

“I could’ve—I could’ve stopped him, I could’ve tried to get you out right away—” 

“You did _everything_ right,” says Jon, and abruptly Martin is choking back tears. “You got into a fight with a five-hundred-year-old serial killer and won, and _then_ you rescued me from outer space, without a—a spacecraft, or anything. All with the Lonely after you every step of the way.” His arms constrict around Martin’s chest. “I defy a single other person in the _world_ to do so well.” 

Something in Jon’s voice makes Martin lean back and look at him. The glow has started to return more strongly to his eyes, now that he’s on the mend, but it’s not yet strong enough that Martin can’t look him in the face. His expression is serious, but even so, Martin thinks he can detect a hint of smugness. 

“You know exactly what you’re doing, don’t you,” he warbles. 

“Hmm?” Jon puts on his best innocent face, but Martin can see right through him. 

Martin has to sniffle before he can speak. “Taking advantage of my poor weak heart and making me cry.” 

Jon scowls. “Your heart isn’t _weak.”_ His expression softens, and he strokes the back of his fingers against Martin’s jaw. “And I just want you to know how grateful I am for everything you do for me.” 

“I love you, too.”

“Mmm. I love you.” Jon’s expression is serious again, and his eyes search Martin’s face for something. “But that’s not—I don’t, I don’t feel that way _because_ you take care of me. All right? I love you _and_ I’m grateful. Not _because.”_

“Oh,” Martin mumbles, unable to come up with better words. 

* * *

They eat a light breakfast in the sitting room around midmorning, all four of them: Jon, Martin, Basira, and Daisy. Time has gotten slippery of late—the lengths of the days and nights no longer align exactly the way they should, not with the Eye deciding them, but it feels like a nine o’clock-ish sort of hour. Basira remains withdrawn, but not cold and standoffish like she had been before the events of the last several weeks. Just tired, and a bit quiet. Like Jon remembers having been, when he’d tried to wean himself off the unnatural vitality of the Beholding. 

She seems to rally herself as they all finish up, though. “How do you feel about going to the Institute and putting Jonah Magnus’s eyes out?” she asks.

Jon coughs violently, having done a perfect and completely involuntary spit-take, as at the same time, Martin says, “Yes,” with absolutely no hesitation. Daisy unsuccessfully tries to smother a laugh under her hands. 

Once Jon gets his voice back, he asks, “Erm—what brought this on, exactly? Not that I disapprove, I just—d’you mean _now?”_

“No, obviously not _now,”_ says Basira. “But soon. We don’t have a plan yet, but we’re working on one. We figured, if anything could fix this, it would be that.” 

“I suppose that makes sense,” says Jon slowly. “Martin—” 

“I already said yes,” says Martin, gathering up the dishes from the coffee table. 

“Even if it could be risky? For both of us?” 

“If there’s any chance to reverse all this, I’ll take it,” says Martin firmly. “I don’t particularly care whether it’s dangerous or not.” He takes the dishes to the kitchen. When he returns, he adds, “Unless _you_ don’t want to take the risk—” 

“No, I—I do want to help,” says Jon. “I want to—I want to make sure that Magnus can’t hurt any more people.” 

“Then we’re agreed,” says Basira. 

* * *

Jon is still tired, but he insists that he’s well enough to move anyway. After his unexpected trip into space, he’s in desperate need of both a shower and a change of clothes. The former is hypothetically possible where he is. The latter, however, isn’t; he hadn’t brought any spare clothes with him on the trip over, and nothing of Daisy’s or Basira’s would fit him by any stretch of the imagination, even if they were inclined to lend him something. Besides, the food Daisy and Basira have stocked up is not sufficient for four for any significant stretch of time, and Jon and Martin still have plenty at their flat. 

It takes a while to talk Martin around to the idea of leaving, though. 

“We’re going to be all right,” Jon promises again, as Martin hesitates on the threshold, wringing his hands. “I can see the whole path, and there’s nobody dangerous or ill-intentioned enough to hurt us anywhere near, I promise.” 

“What if someone else pulls the same trick as Simon?” asks Martin, a petulant note in his voice. 

Jon deliberately squashes the old, near-instinctive reflex to reply with a cutting remark. _I don’t do that anymore,_ he reminds himself. _Especially not to Martin._ Instead he says, “The thing he did would only work for a Vast avatar, and the only other one powerful enough that we know of was Mike Crew, and he’s long gone. But we’ll avoid Vast manifestations. Dark, Lonely, and Stranger ones, too, just in case there’s something that could hide from me in one.” 

Martin bites his lip, eyes anguished. 

“We’ll be safe,” says Jon soothingly. “I’ll be on watch the entire time. It’s not far, and we’ll be quick.” 

Martin finally allows Jon to lead him out the door by the hand, though he still doesn’t look happy about it. He puts on a brave face the entire trip home, but his shoulders are tense and his jaw remains clenched. Jon holds his hand and does his best to ignore the soreness in all of his joints. The walk isn’t pleasant for either of them, but it needs to get done, so they carry on. 

When they’re finally through the door, Martin slides the deadbolt across a shade rougher than strictly necessary. Jon lightly brushes a hand against his back, and watches the tension gradually slide out of him. When he turns around, he has a little half-smile across his face. 

“Thank you,” they both try to say at the same time. Jon smiles, and Martin laughs a little, dragging the back of his hand across his face. “What are you thanking me for?” asks Martin. 

“For trusting me, and coming with me even though you didn’t want to go back out,” says Jon. “Why—ah. Your turn.”

“For keeping me safe, of course,” says Martin. He clasps Jon against his chest again for a moment, then releases him. “Now. How are you feeling? Hungry?” 

Jon hasn’t felt properly hungry in months. But he knows from experience that food helps him feel more human when he’s tired, and right now, he’s exhausted. “I’ll eat if you want to make something,” he says, truthfully. “But—maybe you could help me with something, first?” 

“Of course,” says Martin. 

* * *

Showering together feels surprisingly un-momentous, for all that it’s a rather new experience for Martin. It’s a little cramped—the bathroom isn’t particularly large, and Martin is both very tall and very broad. But even though the space is warm and close, it’s more cozy than anything else.

They’d made a valiant effort to wash Jon’s hair in the sink at first, but both the height and the angle were absolutely all wrong, and after several minutes of Martin fruitlessly trying to find a way to get the faucet to point at Jon’s scalp, they’d both come to the conclusion that the shower was a better idea. Martin, recalling the handful of conversations they’d had back in the cottage about _boundaries_ and _comfort levels,_ had stumbled over his words, trying to suggest the idea in a way that was utterly uninterpretable as a double entendre.

“Is that—okay with you?” he had finally asked, face warm as he determinedly stared past Jon’s ear.

Jon had smiled shyly at him. “Sure. I think it would be—nice. As long as—as it’s going to be all right with _you,_ I mean, I don’t want to assume—”

“It _was_ my idea,” Martin had answered, relieved.

So now here they are, with Martin carefully massaging Jon’s scalp to get all the dried flakes of skin out. His hair is extremely fragile after being exposed to so much direct sunlight with no protective atmosphere in the way, and Martin does his best not to pull too hard. Some strands have already cracked, the ends falling off, leaving the remains even more thin and ragged-looking than before. At least now it’s clean and mostly de-tangled. 

“Do you want me to trim your hair?” asks Martin, as he helps Jon lean back into the spray, careful to keep the shampoo away from his face. Jon has _so many_ eyes to protect. At least he doesn’t need to open them to see what he’s doing.

“Hmm?” 

“I could trim your hair,” says Martin. “Neaten up the ends, at least. Only if you want, though.” 

“I’d like that,” Jon murmurs. “Thank you. I could try and cut yours, too, if you like. Though I don’t think you really need a trim yet, not like I do.” 

“Sounds nice,” says Martin, smiling down at him. Jon smiles back, closed eyes and all. 

Jon ends up trimming Martin’s hair first; Martin doesn’t want to cut Jon’s hair while it’s still wet, since it’s so damaged he doesn’t know what it will look like when it dries. Jon’s hands are deft on Martin’s slightly-blunt old scissors, and while he’s no professional, the result is even and neat. 

The longest part of Jon’s hair falls just below his shoulders, though most of it isn’t that long. After fussing with it for a little while, Jon decides he wants it cut back to chin length. He doesn’t say so aloud, but he’s been hiding his scarred, many-eyed face behind his hair ever since they’d left the cottage, and Martin suspects he doesn’t want to give up the meager privacy it offers him. 

Jon is relaxed under his hands, even with the scissors so close to his face and neck. Martin is very careful to keep the blades under control and moving slowly. 

When he’s done, Jon opens his gleaming eyes and stares into the mirror for a long moment. “Well?” asks Martin anxiously. 

Jon’s eyes slide closed again, and he smiles at Martin in the glass. “It’s perfect, Martin. Thank you.” 

Martin fusses with the towel he’d draped around Jon’s shoulders, embarrassed by the praise. Truthfully, it’s far from perfect—even if Jon’s hair wasn’t still thin and frizzy, the cut is slightly uneven in places. Martin’s mother would have sighed loudly over every one of the half dozen or so little mistakes he can see, if he’d been cutting her hair. 

He has to stop what he’s doing for a few seconds. It’s been a long time since he last thought of his mother. Maybe that should make him feel guilty, but it doesn’t. He lets the memory dissipate, and then goes to put away the scissors.

* * *

Before leaving, Martin and Jon empty and repack the bags they used on the long trip from Scotland. They each pack a few changes of clothes, in case they get caught out again, and some of their food supplies, to ease the burden on Daisy and Basira’s pantry. 

The walk back is harder than the walk over, at least physically. Martin’s nerves are easier, after the uneventful earlier trip, but it becomes clear fairly quickly that Jon isn’t up to much more physical activity, despite his protests to the contrary. By the time they reach the stairwell at Daisy and Basira’s place, he’s so tired out that he has to stop and lean against Martin for support every five or six steps.

When they finally reach the door, Jon immediately totters over to the sofa and sits down heavily next to Georgie, who blinks down at him, frozen in mid-sentence. 

“Sorry,” he groans, flapping a hand in the air. “Go on, don’t mind me.” 

“Hi, Jon, _so_ lovely to hear from you again,” says Melanie from the other side of Georgie, who hides a smile behind her hand as Jon stammers a brief apology. “I’m assuming the other footsteps are Martin?”

“Oh! Yes, sorry,” says Martin, embarrassed. “Um. Hello again?” 

“Jon? Are you all right?” asks Daisy. 

“I’m fine,” says Jon as Martin heads to the kitchen to put away the groceries he’d brought. “Just tired myself out. But don’t let me interrupt. What were you—er. Please, go on.” 

“We haven’t figured out how we’re going to get into the Institute without Magnus figuring out what we’re up to,” says Melanie. 

Martin comes back into the room just in time to see Jon frown. “Wait. Are—I would like to know if you’re planning to go on—on the trip to the Institute. To try and—get rid of Magnus.” 

“If you think I’m not going to be there while you lot put the bastard’s eyes out, then you don’t know me very well,” says Melanie, remarkably calmly. 

Jon’s mouth opens, closes, and opens again. “Fair. Although—” Whatever he had been about to say next is cut off as Basira walks in from the back of the flat, blindfold over her eyes. She fumbles her way over to the armchair in the corner and sits with a groan, rubbing her head. 

“All here, then?” Basira’s voice may be tired, but there’s steel there, too. “Let’s get started.” 

* * *

It comes out fairly quickly that Georgie and Melanie had returned to the Institute shortly after everything had first gone wrong. After five minutes of carefully worded not-questions from Jon about the tower in the center of the building—where it was coming out, if Georgie had been able to see any stairs on the outside, and so on—an exasperated Melanie finally asks why Jon doesn’t just look for himself. 

“I can’t,” he says, to surprised looks from everyone except Martin. 

Basira recovers first. “Do you know why not?” she asks, sounding a bit skeptical. Martin bristles, but by the time he comes up with a retort, Jon is already answering. 

“The building is a site of power for the Eye,” says Jon. “I think it’s too closely connected with the source of my—my abilities—for me to see inside. I have a pretty good vantage point on the outside of the building, and I can see the more mundane areas—up to a point—but the tower doesn’t connect anywhere I can see.” He frowns, uncertain. “I can’t be _sure,_ but I suspect the only way in is through the tunnels.” 

“Getting through the tunnels is pointless if there are spooky Eye monsters in our way the whole time,” Melanie grumbles. 

“Getting past the Eye monsters is pointless if we get stuck in the tunnels,” Basira snaps back. 

An idea has been coalescing in the back of Martin’s head for the past half hour. He has no idea whether or not it will work, but it’s better than listening to Basira and Melanie argue. “I have an idea?” He winces at the nervous squeak in his voice. It seems noisy crowds, even small, familiar ones, still don’t agree with him. Shaking off the momentary discomfort, he turns to Jon. “Ask me how to get through the tunnels to the panopticon.” 

“Wh—You want me to make you tell me.” Jon audibly corrals his tone in the middle of the sentence, turning the question into a flat statement of fact. 

“Yes,” says Martin. “I saw the map that Peter had, even if I can’t remember the details. And both it and the Leitner he was using to move the tunnels around are lost in the Lonely now, so the path can’t have changed since I walked it. Right?” 

“Unless Peter’s stuff dropped out of the Lonely when he died, or when you got out,” says Basira, frowning. 

“I doubt it,” says Jon. “Wouldn’t really make sense for the Lonely to give up lost and forgotten things, would it? Especially if they were important, or valuable.” 

“Can you even make people remember things they’ve forgotten?” asks Daisy. 

“I’ve never done it before,” says Jon. He picks at the cuff of his shirt. 

“You can try it now,” says Martin. 

Jon’s shoulders tense. 

“I trust you,” Martin reminds him. “I know what it’s like already, and I’m offering freely. If you still don’t feel comfortable—” 

“No, I’ll do it,” says Jon with a sigh. He takes Martin’s hand in both of his, lifts his chin, and opens all his eyes at once, just the barest slit. “How did you get from the Archives to the center of the old Millbank prison?”

It’s so much _stronger_ than the times Jon’s accidentally compelled him in the past. Stronger, even, than when Jon had rescued him from the Lonely. There’s nothing special about the words themselves, but the air goes tense and close around Martin. Gravity reorients itself: he’s just slipped off the edge of a precipice, and _down_ is now synonymous with _telling Jon what he wants to know._

“When Peter was taking me to the Panopticon, we started by going through the trapdoor in the archives—” Martin’s voice... doesn’t _exactly_ operate without input from the rest of him. It’s just that the effort of speaking is suddenly much less than the effort of keeping his mouth shut. 

Coming to the end of his long and rambling account of traveling through the tunnels feels like waking up from an ill-advised midday nap. Martin’s head feels fuzzy, as though his brain had been replaced by cotton. Jon is still holding his hand, so he focuses on that instead of the disorientation. It helps. 

“So we have a plan for getting to the tower,” says Melanie. _”Now_ can we talk about the eyeball things? I don’t suppose Jon can, I dunno, out-eyeball them?” 

“How did you avoid them in the first place?” asks Basira. “For that matter, how do we know they’re hostile? Maybe we can just walk past them.” 

But Georgie is already shaking her head. “One caught us just as we were trying to leave. It—or they, I suppose—spoke to me in Jon’s voice. Said I had a secret, and made me tell it. It was just like when Jon asked me things, I couldn’t—Jon? Jon!” 

But he’s already across the room, vanishing through the door on trembling legs. Martin doesn’t waste a single instant on surprise; he just dashes after him. 

Jon is surprisingly quick when he wants to be. Martin finally catches up with him in the lobby of Basira’s apartment block, curled up on the floor, his back to the wall. His face is gray, except for a splash of red at his lip where he’s bitten himself hard enough to draw blood. 

“Jon!” Martin crouches in front of him, reaching out but not touching, afraid to make whatever this is worse. “What’s going on?” 

“Please—” Jon gasps for breath. “Just—just talk to me, please, I need—”

He doesn’t even need to finish the sentence before Martin is off to the races, babbling about—he doesn’t quite know. Poetry, perhaps, or anecdotes from his early days at the Institute. Jon squeezes his eyes shut, listening raptly. It takes a long time for his shuddering to ease.

At long last, Jon lets out a deep breath and uncurls from his fetal position. 

“Better?” Martin asks.

“Marginally,” says Jon, sounding exhausted. Then he frowns. “By which I mean—thank you. I know that sounds—a touch sarcastic, but I do mean it. I don’t know what I would do, what I would have done, without you.” He sighs, rubbing his face. “I’m sorry I’m so rubbish at this.”

Martin just smiles faintly and places one cautious hand on Jon’s shoulder. “It’s all right. I know you mean it. But—what was that _about,_ Jon?” 

“Oh! Right, sorry. Yes. Er. Georgie has a secr—a, a _thing_ which she knows and I don’t. I mean, she told me about it before, in a statement, but she didn’t tell me everything. I think. I’m not sure exactly how that’s possible, but it’s the only way I can make sense of it. Maybe it’s just more potent now that everything’s different? It... it _itches.”_ He shudders convulsively.

Martin swallows hard, vague memories of an endless knocking at the door flickering through his mind. Jon’s face softens, and he reaches out to hold one of Martin’s hands in both of his.

“Sorry,” he says. “I won’t go into detail. It’s been fine, until now, I just—I just got taken by surprise, that’s all.”

“So you needed to focus on something else to—to take the edge off?” 

“Pretty much, yes.” Jon carefully gets to his feet, keeping a hold on Martin’s hand even when he’s done pulling him upright. He glances up, then down again, and sighs. “I’ve been leaning on you fairly hard these last few days, haven’t I?”

“Pardon?”

“I went and got myself kidnapped, _again,_ and you had to rescue me,” says Jon. “And then take care of me while I was injured, and now this. I just—” He groans and rubs his face again. “I don’t want this to become the way things are. I don’t want you to be the only thing holding me up, and… and I’d like to be there for _you,_ not just the other way around.”

“Is that what this morning was about?” asks Martin, and Jon nods minutely. “You have been there for me,” says Martin gently. “If I tried to list all the ways you’ve helped me stay alive and sane over the past few weeks, we’d be here for hours. You _do_ know that, right?”

Jon shrugs, just a twitch of his shoulder blades. 

Martin drapes an arm over those shoulders, and Jon, for all his stiff anxiety, is quick to lean into the embrace. “Why don’t we sit down and have a nice long talk about this?” says Martin.”Once we deal with the Institute, I mean. We can figure out what we’re going to do next. Find our balance together.”

“Okay,” says Jon, and lets Martin tug him back toward the stairs. “I’d like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: time slippage, non-sexual nudity/physical intimacy, more discussion of Jon’s injuries from last chapter, minor blood/accidental self-harm, too many eyes
> 
> Getting close to the end now! Tell me what you think! :D


	14. Plans and Preparations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the final wrinkles are ironed out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Observant readers may notice that the chapter count has changed! That’s because this one had a natural break about halfway through, and I decided it made more sense as two half-length chapters than one weirdly bifurcated normal-length one. Chapter 15 will go up tomorrow, and then it’s back to Saturdays.
> 
> Thanks to [NevillesGran](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NevillesGran) for beta reading this chapter!
> 
> Content warnings in the end notes.

Jon’s exit is so abrupt that at first, Daisy doesn’t notice that Basira has gone very still. But it’s impossible to miss when Basira claps her hands over her ears and starts muttering to herself. 

“What’s... going on? What—who just left?” asks Melanie. 

Daisy ignores Georgie’s answer in favor of talking to Basira. “Hey—hey, Basira? Can you hear me? What’s happening?” 

Basira just mumbles a little louder. 

“Basira, please tell me what’s happening,” says Daisy. Something approaching real fear begins to build up behind her ribs. 

The rising dread is interrupted when Basira’s hands shoot out and grab Daisy’s wrists, sure and unerring despite the blindfold. She guides Daisy’s hands back to settle on her ears, and holds them there. Daisy still doesn’t know what’s going on, but she holds on for several minutes, until Basira’s grip finally loosens. 

“Going to tell me what that was all about?” Daisy asks, worry sharpening her tongue. 

“I’m not entirely sure myself,” says Basira. “But, Georgie?” 

“Yes?” 

“Whatever it was you told the Eye thing—person—in the Institute? Don’t _ ever  _ say it in front of me. Or Jon, for that matter.” Basira frowns. “In fact, it’s probably best if you don’t even think about it too much.” 

“O...kay—oh.  _ Oh. _ No, I—I won’t.” 

“Thanks.” 

“Jesus,” Melanie groans. “Just when you think things can’t get any more bizarrely stressful. I guess it does make sense, though.” 

Basira shakes her head as if to clear it, and rubs her temples as though they ache. “Anyway. Whatever you did last time, I think we can rule it out.” 

“Probably for the best,” Georgie mutters. 

“So we’ll need a new idea,” continues Basira as if there had been no interruption. “I’m guessing that Melanie is well and truly out of the Slaughter’s grip.” Melanie doesn’t say anything, but she does bite her lip. Georgie’s eyes flicker to her face, and then away. 

It’s obvious to anyone looking that there’s more to that story. But Basira’s eyes are still hidden. There’s a split second where Daisy considers revealing the deception, but she remembers the sound of blood pulsing in her ears, and a tremendous weight of earth on her chest, and she decides, in one lightning-quick flicker of an instant, that if Melanie won’t volunteer to go back, not even for this, then that’s nobody’s business but her own. 

Basira, meanwhile, is still talking. “And Daisy’s pretty well out of the Hunt. So that leaves—” 

“I could go back,” says Daisy quietly. 

“—just me and—wait. What do you mean?” Basira’s brow wrinkles above the narrow band of silk covering her eyes. 

“I mean,” says Daisy, speaking deliberately so that her voice doesn’t shake, “that, if we have no other way of getting through, that I could, you know. Chase them off.” 

“I thought you said you would rather die than go back,” says Basira. 

“I did.” 

“But—” Basira’s eyebrows snap together. “No.” 

“If it’s what needs to be done—” 

_ ”No! _ You can’t—you can’t just sign up for a suicide mission when we don’t even know if it’ll work!” 

“What happened to,  _ if there’s even a chance of fixing this, we have to see it through?” _ asks Daisy, scowling. 

“That doesn’t mean you have to—to throw your life away! Daisy,  _ please, _ let’s just come up with another way—” 

“Basira.” Basira’s mouth closes, and her jaw clenches as she waits to hear what Daisy will say. “Maybe there is something else. But if there isn’t... I can’t—I  _ can’t _ sit back and decide that it’s more important for me to live than for the rest of the world to be all right. Even if it’s only a chance. Not after—not after the way I’ve been. What I’ve done.” 

“That wasn’t your f—” 

“Bullshit.” 

Basira hugs her stomach with both arms. “Please.” 

Daisy presses a hand against Basira’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.” Basira’s jaw is clenched tight enough to look painful. “Borrowed time, remember?” 

“Not yet,” Basira whispers. 

Daisy takes a breath to say—something, she isn’t sure exactly what—when there’s a quiet cough from behind her. She turns to see Georgie pointedly looking in another direction, and Melanie fiddling with the cuff of her jacket. Whoops. 

“Sorry,” says Daisy. “Sort of. Er. Forgot there were other people around. We can, erm, finish this conversation later...” She trails off awkwardly. 

Georgie speaks into the deafening silence. “I think Basira was saying something about other possibilities?” 

“Right. Er. I was saying that, that, since Georgie’s out, and Melanie’s out, and Daisy is—for now, anyway—out, that the only options left are Jon and myself.” She frowns. “And—well, and Martin, I suppose, but it didn’t sound like he had any kind of control over what he was doing, so I think we can probably rule him out as well. So just me and Jon. Or—well, I suppose we could try and find a mundane solution, too. But I don’t have the first idea of what we’d try.” 

“Statements?” suggests Melanie. “Maybe we could—try and take all the statements out, so they’d leave the archives to get them back?” 

“Same problem as before,” says Georgie. “They’re in the way.” 

“Could you do whatever it is you did to turn Daisy back to normal?” Melanie asks Basira. 

“I don’t think so,” says Basira. “I’m pretty sure that was a special case. I don’t think it would’ve worked if I hadn’t known her so well. So really, the only person who might be able to do something is—” 

The door clicks open. “Is me,” Jon finishes, sweeping dramatically back into the room, Martin right behind him. “Sorry for rushing out like that.” 

“It’s fine. Do you think you can clear our way through the archives?” Basira asks over Georgie and Melanie’s muffled snickering. 

“I... I think so? It’s worth a shot, at least,” says Jon as he settles back down into his seat. “Sometimes I really wish I could see the future instead of just dry facts.” 

“So we have an idea for the Eye things, and we have an idea for getting to the center,” says Basira. “Do we have an idea for dealing with Magnus?” 

“Corkscrew to the eyes?” suggests Martin. Georgie turns to stare at him as though he’d grown a second head. 

“I’m in favor,” says Melanie, to nobody’s surprise. “Though really, it  _ could _ also be an awl.” 

After a pause in which everyone in the room contemplates the path their lives have taken, there’s a round of nods and sounds of agreement. Georgie is the only one to seem ambivalent, and even she eventually shrugs and mutters, “Guess that’s happening, then.” 

“Then let’s do this,” says Basira. 

* * *

There is some debate about when the plan should be carried out, but after half an hour of back and forth, during which time Basira’s headache continues to come and go, they all agree to give it a shot the following morning. Melanie argues stringently for trying as soon as possible, concerned that Magnus will figure out what they’re up to, but subsides when Jon points out that no matter how quickly they act, Magnus will already know their plans. 

“We can’t try to do something he won’t expect,” Jon had said. “That worked once, but it won’t work again, not with the Eye manifested in the real world. Our only real hope is to try and outnumber him, or come up with a strategy he can’t do anything about.” 

Georgie, on the other hand, grumbles about the haste and foolhardiness of the plan. But in the end, she agrees there’s no point in waiting unnecessarily, and they really have remarkably few preparations to make. 

Once the others have left and Basira and Daisy are the only two remaining in the flat, the silence seems to settle in like a weight in the air. Basira knows that they need to have a talk, sooner rather than later, but it feels almost unreal. Like as long as she never thinks about the elephant in the room, it will eventually get bored and leave. 

But Basira knows this new-old Daisy well enough to realize that if she doesn’t bring it up soon, Daisy will beat her to it. So, after an hour of agonizing over how to start the conversation, Basira just sits down next to Daisy on the sofa and says, “So.” 

“So?” 

“Borrowed time.” She spits the words out quickly, but they still leave a bitter taste in her mouth. 

Basira isn’t wearing her blindfold, for now, so she’s able to see the shutters close behind Daisy’s eyes. “Are you—you’re not going to try and tell me you’ve changed your mind, are you?” 

“About what?” 

“Your promise.” 

Basira swallows. “No. I won’t back out.” 

“Then...?” Daisy’s posture loosens, but she doesn’t quite relax. 

What can Basira say?  _ I don’t know what I’m going to do when you’re gone?  _ Daisy will just tell her to find meaning in something else; she’s not a sentimental person. _ I’m worried you haven’t thought this thing through? _ Daisy would never take the prospect of her own death so lightly. When she’d made Basira promise, she’d been sure. 

Daisy waits for her to gather her thoughts, with a gentle patience that’s entirely new. The old Daisy had been able to stake out targets for hours—days, even—without ever moving or speaking, without even breathing much more than the bare minimum. Basira can’t imagine that the Daisy she knows now has that kind of stamina. But she can sit quietly while Basira sorts out how to talk about her  _ feelings, _ and that’s more than she ever would have done before. 

At long last, Basira asks, “If we make it through tomorrow alive, can we—can we talk about how to keep you... out of temptation, so to speak?” 

“Even if I am out of temptation, my resolve may not last forever,” Daisy warns her. “It might not even last very long.” 

“I know. You’ve made that... pretty clear. I just...” Basira wraps her arms around herself. “If I have to—to  _ stop  _ you, I will. It’ll be… it’ll hurt, of course. But I’ll do it, because... because it’s what you want. But I don’t think I could forgive myself if you died before you had to because of a stupid mistake. So I want to see what I can do, to help you stay here as long as possible.” 

Basira’s eyes are closed, so she startles slightly at the feel of an arm across her shoulders. But then she lets herself relax into it. Once, she would have scoffed at this sort of gentle treatment, would have accused Daisy of treating her like a child, or like something delicate. But she suspects it’s as much for Daisy’s comfort as her own, so she holds her tongue. And besides, it’s not so bad. In fact, it’s pleasant. Grounding. 

Maybe she should stop thinking of things in terms of what the old Daisy would and wouldn’t do, she thinks. Maybe she should just be grateful for this, for here and now. 

“I’d like that,” says Daisy. “Let’s plan on it.” 

* * *

The hours slip by faster than Daisy expects. It feels as though she’d barely done more than blink in between the earlier heart-to-heart and now, but it’s already late enough that if she doesn’t sleep soon, she’ll be exhausted come the morning. 

But she hesitates before going to bed. Tomorrow will be too busy for serious discussion, and there’s no guarantee of more time afterwards. This might be her very last chance to… to…

She groans. Ever since Basira had brought her back, things have felt different between them. Uncertain. Unsettled. As though something about the two of them had changed when she wasn’t looking, and she’s suddenly in uncharted territory. It makes her anxious.

_ This is why we never talked about this stuff before, _ she thinks to herself, more than a little grumpily. Everything was so much easier when she could just dismiss any hint of complication as unnecessary sentimentality.

When Basira walks out of the bathroom, pajama-clad, hair damp from the shower, Daisy is still standing outside the door to her room, staring into the middle distance.

There’s a chance that by this time tomorrow, she’ll be dead. Maybe not a large one—Daisy’s self-sacrificial offer is only plan B, after all, and even if it does come to that, Basira will definitely insist on exhausting all possible alternatives first. But they are all of them walking into uncertainty and danger, and they still don’t know what they’ll find in the heart of the Institute. So there’s a possibility that anything she says or does now will be moot. 

But it’s always been true that she would be gone someday. It’s always been true that  _ Basira _ would be gone someday. And even if neither of them live to see another sunset, then the decision that Daisy is even now trying to make will still matter, even if only for a little while. 

“Daisy?” asks Basira quietly, and the time to decide has passed.

“Please don’t take this the wrong way,” says Daisy haltingly. “But I just… I want you to know that… that I’m grateful to you. I wouldn’t have been able to be, to be  _ myself  _ again if you hadn’t been there for me to rely on. And I know it wasn’t easy for you, for things to… for  _ me _ to suddenly change like that. But I’m glad that I got to be me again.”

“What do you mean, don’t take it the wrong way?” asks Basira, guarded.

“I just—” Daisy groans and covers her face with her hands. “I don’t want to make some big  _ declaration  _ out of it. I just want to say something, because… you’re the best friend I’ve ever had, and I wanted to say thank you, in case I don’t get another chance. I’m not planning on doing anything rash,” she clarifies hastily as Basira’s brow wrinkles. “And I’m not—I’m not trying to say that I want anything different from—from how things are right now. I don’t. I’m just saying that—that I’m glad that I got to know you. Even if this is all the time I get, I’m glad I got to know you.”

Basira's face relaxes, and she smiles faintly. “I know.”

“Good,” says Daisy, her relief at being understood making her shoulders slump. “Good.” 

“Daisy?” Daisy looks up to meet Basira’s gaze again. She seems to struggle with something, before finally saying, “Me, too.” 

“Oh?” Daisy briefly considers the long time they’ve known each other, the stress of the past few years, the way they’ve always had each other’s backs without needing to say a word. “I think I knew that, too.”

And then there’s nothing more to do except rest in preparation for the morning. Nothing is different. It never needed to be. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: canon-typical discussions of mortality, implied future eye trauma.
> 
> Tell me your favorite line, if you like :)


	15. Unto the Breach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the walls are pierced and the defenders are routed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [NevillesGran](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NevillesGran) for beta reading this chapter!
> 
> Content warnings in the end notes.

Three weeks after the end of the world, six people walk in through the front door of the Magnus Institute, each of them a study in contradiction. At the front of the party is a thin, heavily-scarred man, whose weathered face and silvery hair make him look years older than the others, even though he’s the youngest of the group. Beside him is a man of imposing stature, the tallest and broadest of the party by far; yet, somehow, his bearing makes him seem slightest of them all. 

In the center of the group are two women walking arm in arm, one tall, one shorter. The shorter one strides as though against a torrent, every foot planted decisively enough to clear a path through the most stubborn crowd. But she’s not angry, not anymore, only determined; the force of her gait is a holdover from an earlier self. Her companion, meanwhile, walks tentatively, still not quite sure she wants to be here; but she alone of all of them stands straight and unbowed. 

Bringing up the rear is a woman with gleaming dark eyes, keener than any eagle’s, yet hidden and dulled beneath a length of water-stained silk. And at her right hand is a woman who appears weaker than she ever has in her life, but who has never been stronger in her resolve. 

They are not heroes out of legend. In all the breadth of humanity, none of them are even particularly unique, except in the way everyone is. But they are here, at the center of the wrongness in the world, armed with stubborn belief and little else; and really, what is heroism except the right place, the right time, and a person whose determination can outlast even fate? 

* * *

When Georgie and Melanie had related their story, they had said that they hadn’t encountered any of the ghoulish-sounding eyeball-covered creatures until they’d gotten to the door of the archives. But when Daisy steps through the unnecessarily grand front door of the Institute, there’s one seated behind the reception desk. It has curly light-brown hair, and wears a flower-printed silk blouse and long skirt, and at first glance looks like it might have once been a woman before the eyes took over every inch of its skin. They’re mismatched in size and orientation but not appearance: every single one is the same shape, the same clear hazel color. But the worst part, Daisy realizes as she gets closer, is that those eyes are familiar. 

“Rosie,” Martin says softly, sounding like he’s been punched. 

(“Shit, really?” Melanie mutters under her breath to Georgie. “So they were employees after all, then?”) 

The thing that had maybe once been the cheerful receptionist of the Institute fixes its many, many eyes on Georgie. It has no mouth, but it speaks with Jon’s voice. “I can tell— _click—_ you’ve got— _click—_ a secret.” 

“Jon, it’s going to ask me—” Georgie’s voice isn’t panicked, the way Daisy’s probably would be, but there’s tension there nevertheless. 

“Yes, I know,” says Jon, stepping forward. “I just need to—” 

“Tell me,” says the creature, still in Jon’s voice. 

“N—no,” Georgie gasps, sounding physically pained. 

“Jon,” says Martin warningly. 

“Don’t tell her!” says Jon. He waves his hands as though trying to fan smoke out of the air. “Statement ends—” 

“I need to know,” says Jon’s voice, hissing with static. The creature stands up and walks around the desk, shoes clicking on the marble floor. It doesn’t walk like Rosie, Daisy realizes. Not that she’d been overly familiar with the way that Rosie had walked, but she definitely hadn’t looked like this, all jerky and strange, none of the movements coherent with the others. 

“Statement _ends,”_ snaps Jon, putting himself between the creature and Georgie. “I think—give me just one minute—” 

“This is _so_ uncomfortable,” says Georgie. “I need—I need to sit down—” She half-falls to the floor, putting her head between her knees and breathing loudly through her nose. 

“Jon, goddamn it, do _something—”_ snaps Melanie, hands clenching into fists as Georgie leans against her knee. 

“Statement of—” the creature begins, but Jon cuts it off. 

“Who are you?” he asks, and all the air goes out of the room. There was tension there before, with Jon’s secondhand compulsion bearing down on Georgie, but it’s nothing compared to the real thing. 

“Rosie,” says the creature briskly in Jon’s voice. It’s not even looking at him, Daisy realizes, a sinking feeling in her stomach. It’s still looking past him, still fixed on Georgie. 

But Jon isn’t done. “Who _are_ you?” he asks again. 

A blink ripples across the thing that used to be Rosie. Some of its eyes flicker over to settle on Jon. “Rosie,” it says, still in his voice. “I’m— _click—_ Rosie.” But, although the clip of Jon’s voice hasn’t changed, it sounds... uncertain, somehow. And its words are muddied, as though there’s something else underneath them, distorted and muffled but growing stronger. 

_”Who are you?”_ asks Jon, slow and deliberate. He’s facing away from Daisy, but she can tell he’s opened his eyes: that familiar sickly glow suffuses the room, reflecting off of the Rosie-thing’s eyes in dozens of helter-skelter points of light. 

One of the creature’s eyes closes—the big one in the place its mouth should be. No, Daisy realizes. Not where its mouth _should be._ Where its mouth _is._ Where _her_ mouth is. 

“Rosie,” says Rosie, in her own voice at last. More eyes begin to close, one at a time at first, and then several, and then all of them in a wave. “My name is Rosie—” The eye in the hollow of her throat closes, the very last one save the two beneath her brows, and a sob hitches her breath as tears begin to stream down her cheeks. 

The alien gleam diminishes until it too is gone, and Jon reaches out his hands, uncertain. Probably wondering if Rosie will see him as rescuer or monster. Daisy isn’t sure which it will be herself, until Rosie flings herself at him, nearly knocking them both to the floor. Daisy thinks she can make out a “thank you” amidst the tears. 

They’ve been making a fair amount of noise, so it doesn’t surprise Daisy when the faint sound of footsteps starts echoing down one of the corridors. Immediately, she rushes to the doorway and slams the door shut. There isn’t a lock—or not one that doesn’t require a key, anyway—but there’s a chair behind the desk, and she wedges it under the handle. It probably won’t last very long, and the creatures might not even need to get into the room to start asking inconvenient questions, but it’s a start. 

She turns back to the room to see that the others have gotten the same idea. There isn’t another chair, but Martin somehow manages to move the massive reception desk by himself to block the door behind it, and then goes and joins Basira in bracing his shoulder against the door opposite Daisy. (Daisy mentally re-evaluates her willingness to get into a fight with Martin, should the need arise. It remains an unlikely possibility, fortunately. _Damn.)_ Georgie, meanwhile, is still crouched on the floor, head in her hands, Melanie beside her.

Rosie is still crying, but the explosive force of it has lessened enough that Jon is able to lean back a bit and talk to her. Daisy can catch a word or two, here and there—something about the Institute, something about eyes, something about secrets—but it doesn’t seem particularly relevant, and though she’s certainly sympathetic to the disorientation that comes of being recently liberated from monsterhood, they have more pressing concerns at the moment. She reaches Jon just as the first banging sounds start to come from the door behind her. 

“Jon,” she says urgently. “The doors aren’t going to hold for long. Can you do that again, do you think?” 

“I think so,” he says, then gives Rosie an awkward pat on the back of the shoulder. “I’m sorry, Rosie, I have to—” 

“S—sure,” she says, wiping her eyes. “Th—thank you. Jon.” 

“Of course,” he says. Then, after a brief pause, he adds, “Can you show me how to turn on the intercom system for the whole building?” 

“Er. Sure?” says Rosie, puzzled. She walks over to the desk and checks the straining cables briefly before picking up the phone. “You just push this button here...” 

Jon takes the phone and holds it up to his face. Then he frowns, lowers it, and says, “You all will probably want to cover your ears for this. And possibly also your eyes.” 

Realizing what he’s about to do, Daisy immediately claps her hands over her ears and turns away, scrunching her eyes shut. It’s not quite enough. A glow starts to build on the other side of her eyelids, dim at first, then brighter, brighter, like looking directly at the sun with eyes closed, then brighter still—

And at the peak of it, when her eyes are filling with tears despite being shut harder than they ever have been in her life, comes the question. 

_“WHO ARE YOU?”_

It booms from everywhere at once. From behind, from above, bouncing off the walls to come from in front, too. There’s nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, just the awful, awful pressure, demanding an answer. 

“I’m Daisy,” she cries. “My name is Alice Tonner, but I’m Daisy, I’m Daisy—” 

She can hear other people crying out their names as well, like shields against the onslaught. But even as she hears them, as the words etch themselves into her memory, she can feel her mind discard the knowledge, all the meaning draining away. There is enough awareness—enough depth of understanding—in her skull to comprehend the whole of her existence at once. There is no room for anything or anyone else.

But there is space outside of her, and something _else,_ looking in. There’s something watching, observing, peering down to the marrow of her bones with a vigilance that sears, and she gives it what it wants because there is nothing else that can be done. She is Daisy, Daisy-not-Alice, Daisy-the-Hunter, Daisy-the-free. She has been a fighter, and a killer, and a partner, and a friend, and buried, and tired, and lost, and found, and afraid, and full of hope, and, and, and, and and and and and she

_is_

**_Known._ **

(and somehow, somewhere, in some secret place deep down within, some small and fierce and obstinate and _human_ part of her smiles through cracked teeth, and spits red onto the floor. _hmmm,_ it says. _that’s not so bad. you really can get used to anything, huh?)_

It takes a long time for the pressure to lessen, and a long time after that for the echoes to fade. When Daisy is strong enough to stand again, she peels herself off the floor and surveys the damage. 

Basira is rubbing at her ears as though they’re sore, but looks basically unharmed. Good. Martin is slumped against the door, eyes wide and stunned. Georgie has Melanie in her lap; both of them look shaken, though Georgie less so than anyone else in the room. Rosie appears to have fainted; she’s propped up against the desk next to Jon. And Jon is flushed, eyes squeezed shut but still glowing brightly, blood trickling down in a scarlet ribbon from his nose. And also from a few of his eyes. Ew. 

Daisy makes her way over to Basira, unsteady on her feet after that ordeal. “Are you all right?” she asks, helping her to stand. 

“I think so,” says Basira hazily. “Don’t think it hit me as hard as it could’ve. Dunno whether that’s a good sign or not, but I’ll take it.” 

Melanie totters to her feet with help from Georgie. “I know you did warn us,” she groans, “but maybe some _additional_ warning might be nice next time? ...Hello?” 

“Jon, are you all right?” asks Martin, as he makes his way over and gathers Jon into his arms. “You’re bleeding!” 

“‘M fine,” Jon mumbles, tilting his head back. “Tired. Hmmm.” He flops sideways onto Martin, leaving a smear of red despite Martin’s best efforts. 

“Jon? Jon!” Martin joggles him slightly, but then stops abruptly, looking around at the group with wild eyes. A curl of whitish mist—when did that show up?—twines around his feet like a cat. 

“Let me see?” says Basira, pushing her blindfold up. She checks him over quickly, though every thirty seconds or so she has to take a break to cover her eyes again. At last, she concludes, “I think he’s fine, just passed out. No injuries I can see. Seems more like exhaustion than anything else. If this were normal circumstances, I’d say take him to A&E just in case, but...” 

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” says Martin, and hoists him up into a bridal carry with no apparent effort, careful to support the back of his head. 

“How are we supposed to get through to the tower now?” says Daisy, frowning. “If Jon can’t get you to tell us where to go...” 

“I took notes,” says Georgie. They all—well, most of them—turn to look at her. “What? It was the obvious thing to do!” 

“You’re right, good thinking,” says Basira. “But first, let’s see if that little stunt accomplished anything.” Fixing her blindfold so that it’s out of her face, she crosses the room to the corridor leading to the archives, and pulls open the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: body horror (too many eyes), blood.
> 
> So, do you think that little stunt worked? *chinhands*


	16. Kingbreaker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a throne is shattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ready, everyone?
> 
> Thanks to [NevillesGran](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NevillesGran) and [rustkid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rustkid) for beta reading this chapter!
> 
> Content warnings in the end notes.

“Let’s see if that little stunt accomplished anything,” says Basira. By the time Georgie realizes what she’s about to do, she’s already opened the door to the hallway.

A humanoid figure stumbles out. Georgie tenses, readying herself to run, until she realizes that it’s not a humanoid figure so much as it is a human, with exactly two eyes and no more. She doesn’t recognize them, but Basira seems to, at least a little; she helps them sit down against the wall, talking in a low voice. A few more people come out of the corridor, staggering as though dizzy or drunk. None of them have more than two eyes, either. 

“It worked,” she breathes. 

“They’re all back to normal?” Melanie asks, tugging at Georgie’s arm to get her attention. 

“Yes, they’re all back—” She stops when she sees a supine figure in the middle of the corridor, still covered in eyes. “Wait, no, there’s one still covered in eyes.” 

“Is it—are they going to—?” 

“I don’t think so? They’re not—not moving—” The last few people trickle out into the lobby, leaving the figure still splayed out on the floor. Georgie swallows. She doesn’t like how still they are. 

“Georgie?” She realizes that she’d taken a few steps forward without noticing. Melanie frowns at her, concerned. “What are you doing?” 

“I just want to look,” she says. “I don’t think they’re... I don’t think they’re conscious.” 

Melanie follows close behind as she edges out into the hallway. The figure on the floor has dark brown eyes, staring glassily in every direction. Their chest doesn’t move. Georgie can’t remember if any of the creatures—the people, she supposes—had been breathing before. But the total lack of motion makes it a moot point anyhow. 

Georgie swallows hard. It’s not the first time she’s seen a corpse. But helpless pity clogs her throat, makes tears prickle her eyes. She doesn’t even know who this person had been. They’re not the one she met the first time she and Melanie came back; that one had had blue eyes. She doesn’t know whether that makes this worse or better. 

She wishes, suddenly, fiercely, that she and Melanie had left the Institute well enough alone, two weeks ago. Maybe then, that person would be alive now. 

“Is everything all right?” asks Melanie. Georgie realizes that she’s squeezing her hand far too tightly, and loosens her grip. 

“I’m all right,” she says quietly. “But it looks like... It looks like there was at least one person who was in too deep to come back.” 

“Too deep as in...?” 

“I... think they’re dead. Hard to tell with the eyes still there, though.” 

“Damn.” 

“Yeah.” 

“When this is done...” Melanie hesitates. “I don’t know how much you want to talk about this on the air—I’m not sure how much the police or whoever still care, but I’m pretty sure we’re going to break at least a few laws today, if we haven’t already. But. Maybe we can try and figure out who... who didn’t make it, and, maybe, read their names out or something? Like an obituary, or a memorial? If we live, I mean.” 

“Yeah,” says Georgie. “Yeah, I think I’d like that.” 

* * *

It takes a while to explain things. Melanie had had a vague notion, at first, that since the survivors are all Institute employees, the story might not have to start from the very beginning. But it turns out that, although most of the sixty-odd people who gather in the lobby have some notion of the supernatural being real, none of them have the slightest idea as to what has been going on under their noses for years. Certainly none of them have anything approaching a unified theory of extradimensional fear abominations, and their memories of the past three weeks are apparently muddy and indistinct.

Their little party of six—well, five, really, since Melanie is taking Jon’s continued silence as evidence that he’s still out cold—ducks out of the room to have a brief but impassioned debate about what to do with them. They can’t send them out into London without an escort; that much is obvious. But none of their ragtag team are willing to babysit sixty frightened adults while everyone else hunts down Magnus, let alone try to shepherd them all to a better location, and leaving them to wait alone seems almost as bad as shooing them out the door. 

Eventually, Melanie and Georgie remember that they have a long list of people willing to do them favors. Miraculously, the desk phone seems to be one of the landlines that still works; they put Rosie in touch with Angus, and trust that their combined competence will carry the day. When word comes that help is on the way, in the form of a squad of volunteers armed with lunches and improvised survival kits, it’s nearly a relief to slip out and finally head down to the archives. 

On the way, they have to step around the (apparently still eye-covered, apparently not decaying) body of the person who’d been unfortunate enough to ask Georgie to tell them a secret back on that first visit. Georgie’s hand clenches too tight around Melanie’s again for a few minutes, but she doesn’t mind. 

Navigating the now-deserted archives proves to be difficult. There’s paper all over the floor—Melanie slips and nearly falls twice, and Basira slips once and actually does fall. Daisy and Georgie try to sweep it out of the way as best they can, but based on the amount of falling paper and quiet swearing, their efforts don’t amount to much. Eventually, Melanie gets fed up and carefully muddles through as best she can, walking slowly to avoid more accidents. 

When they finally make it to the trapdoor into the tunnels, Jon is still stubbornly unconscious. 

“Should we try and wake him?” asks Martin. “I know we have Georgie’s notes, but maybe—”

“Can’t see what good it would do,” says Basira. A pause. “Not like _that!_ He’s out cold because he exhausted himself, and it’s not like getting him to ask you for directions a second time is going to make much of a difference. Might as well let him recover, at least until we’re closer to Magnus.”

There are a few mumbles of agreement, and then Daisy starts talking about improvised climbing harnesses. While the others fuss over whatever way they’re planning on lowering Jon to the tunnel floor, Melanie feels her way down the ladder, impatient to get moving. She may understand that they’re probably better off moving slowly and avoiding accidents than rushing to try and give Magnus less time to prepare, but it’s still agonizing to know that while they worry over the best way to tie Jon to Martin’s shoulders, Magnus is sitting there in his horrible tower, waiting for them. 

At long last, they all stand at the base of the ladder. Melanie takes hold of Georgie’s arm again as Georgie digs out her phone, and there’s the click of a torch from Daisy and Basira’s general direction. 

“I don’t see any branching paths,” says Daisy. Melanie can hear the frown in her voice. 

“Neither do I,” says Martin. “I thought—I’m _sure_ this passage wasn’t straight before.” 

Melanie forces herself through a few of her breathing exercises. They’re so _close._ But the need for caution is still paramount. It would be such a disappointment to get this far and get trapped in the maze because they assumed that Magnus wouldn’t have any tricks up his sleeve. Also, Melanie would really, _really_ prefer not to suffocate or be crushed by spooky moving tunnels. 

...Moving tunnels. 

“Georgie?” says Melanie. 

“Yes?” 

“I have an idea. Can you—and _only_ you—climb back up the ladder and walk to the door of the archives?” Hopefully that will be far enough to test Melanie’s suspicion. 

“Er, sure. Now?” 

“Yeah, if you don’t mind?” 

Georgie clasps Melanie’s shoulder as she walks back over to the ladder. Melanie can feel the others staring at her, and crosses her arms, scowling. 

After a minute or two, she distantly hears Georgie calling, “I’m in the archive doorway!” 

“Is the tunnel still straight?” Melanie asks. 

There’s a soft gasp. “No,” says Martin. “It’s not. It looks just like how it did last time I was here. How did—?” 

“Just a hunch,” Melanie mutters. Then, raising her voice, she calls, “Georgie, it’s all right, come back!” 

As Georgie’s footsteps get closer, Daisy groans loudly. “Oh, my _head._ What am I even looking at?” Martin makes a distressed sound of agreement. 

There’s a rustle of fabric, and then Basira’s voice joins the chorus of complaints. “Oh, that’s _bizarre._ Good catch, Melanie.” 

“What’s going on?” asks Georgie, slightly winded, as her footsteps change from shoes on metal ladder to shoes on rough stone. 

“Apparently, the tunnels are less twisty when you’re around,” says Melanie. 

“Huh. _Weird._ I thought they were just supposed to be, well. Spookily maze-like in a mundane way?” says Georgie, offering her arm to Melanie again. 

“That’s what I thought,” says Martin. “Maybe they’re, I dunno, just so entwined with the Fears that they can’t be separated anymore?” 

“Could also be the way Leitner was using that book for years to change them, or how Helen was living—well, residing—down here,” says Basira, with more fabric sounds. Putting the blindfold back on, maybe? “Maybe after all that exposure, they’re just permanently weird. Hmmm. I wonder... Jon? Wait, no. Martin, what do you reckon is the least harmful of all of Leitner’s books—?” 

_“No,”_ says everyone else in unison. 

“Right,” says Basira, subdued for once. “Bad idea, sorry.” 

“Do we think it’s safe, then?” asks Georgie after a brief pause. “If it’s just me interfering with the tunnels?” 

“Can’t see why it wouldn’t be,” says Martin. “Probably a lot better than relying on my memory, honestly.” 

“Let me get the twine, just in case,” says Daisy. There’s some shuffling as Daisy digs out the ball of twine they’d all agreed was a good safety measure and attaches the end to something, presumably the ladder. Melanie tries not to think of a situation that would require it. 

They’re a few meters down the tunnel when there’s a small mumble that sounds a lot like Jon. Melanie’s suspicions are confirmed when Martin says, in absolutely the soppiest tone of voice possible, “Jon! You’re awake!” 

“Mmm. Hello.” 

“Oh, thank _goodness,_ I was so _worried—”_

“I’m all right,” says Jon, still sounding very muzzy. “How long—? Oh. Never mind. You’ve been carrying me this whole time?” 

“Y-yes—?” 

“You’re so _strong,”_ Jon sighs, sounding more like a smitten schoolboy than Melanie had ever, _ever_ wanted to hear. 

She has to interrupt for the sake of her own sanity. “Please can we go kill Magnus now _please?”_

“Yeah, I’m with Melanie,” says Basira. 

There’s a beat, and then Daisy starts snickering. “Sorry,” say both Jon and Martin at once. 

They have to wait another minute for Jon to be steady enough to stand again. But then, at long, _long_ last, the six of them walk, two by two, into the hidden heart of the Institute. 

* * *

Georgie ends up leading the procession, by unanimous unspoken agreement. The tunnel is long, but also perfectly straight, the walls strangely uniform for all that they look like they were hewn roughly out of solid stone. It’s a good thing that Melanie had realized what’s going on; if she hadn’t known it was her own presence having this effect, Georgie would have suspected a trap. 

There’s no sound in the tunnels except six sets of footsteps and six pairs of lungs. Georgie wishes she knew what to say to break the silence, but she can’t think of anything that wouldn’t fall flat. 

A funny thing happens, as she walks, on and on into the dark, with her—friends? Trusted companions, at the very least—behind her. When she had first set out away from the ladder, away from relative safety and the light of day, she’d wished for the journey to be quick, so that they could get this over with as fast as possible and leave. But now, as the tunnel suddenly widens into a massive open atrium, a narrow tower rising in the center of the empty space, she realizes she’s been wishing for the wrong thing. She should have wished for the journey to last longer, the better to put off the reckoning that is suddenly staring her in the face. 

She isn’t afraid, of course. But she can tell that her friends—and yes, they _are_ her friends, she realizes, every one of them—are terrified, and that’s somehow worse. 

Something occurs to her.

“Can any of the rest of you see open air, up there?” Georgie asks. “It looks to me like we’re still underground. Is this even the same tower?”

“I can’t see an opening either,” says Basira, and the others (except Melanie, of course) voice their agreement. “I really, _really_ hope this is more of the same effect as in the tunnels.”

“It’s the same tower,” says Jon confidently. “I don’t know why it’s so different from inside, but it’s definitely the Panopticon.” The rest of them take that as their cue to approach the base.

There isn’t a rail on the metal staircase that wraps around the tower like a choking vine. “Careful,” Georgie says to Melanie. “The stairs look sturdy, but there’s no guardrail.” 

“Okay,” says Melanie tightly.

She makes as if to start up the stairs, but Jon says, “Wait,” and the procession halts to look at him. “Let me go first.”

Georgie blinks. “Why?” From the expressions on the others’ faces, she’s not the only one wondering.

“We don’t know whether or not Magnus is prepared for us,” says Jon grimly. “He might be armed. And if he is, it’s much safer for the rest of you if I’m the first one he encounters, what with the whole healing… thing.” It’s not exactly a pleasant thought, and Georgie can see the unease on the others’ faces, but none of them argue; unfortunately, it does make a pragmatic kind of sense.

Jon starts up the stairs, followed by Martin, then Basira, Daisy, and Melanie, with Georgie bringing up the rear. It’s hard going. The higher Georgie climbs, the more a strange weight builds up in her bones, a directionless _pressure_ that makes it hard for her to keep walking. By the time she nears the top, it feels as though she’s swimming through tar—as though the very air is trying to push her back. None of the others seem to feel the same thing; they walk upright and keep a steady pace, while Georgie falls further and further behind. She has to call for a break after about three floors’ worth of stairs, but it doesn’t last; resting doesn’t help one bit. So instead, she perseveres, half-leaning against the cold concrete wall.

From the apparent height of the tower from outside, Georgie had been expecting to walk for hours, arriving at the summit not long before dusk. But this tower doesn’t seem to be the same height as the one outside, for all that the two are apparently one and the same; she estimates they’ve only ascended four or perhaps five floors by the time the stairs end. The railingless landing is flush with the broad hexagonal top of the tower, which turns out to be a flat and featureless concrete floor. Six concrete pillars, one at each of the hexagon’s points, appear to support an arched roof above; it’s hard to make out what the roof is made of in the gloom. It’s exactly as dark here as in the rest of the atrium—there is no light in the Panopticon’s center save that of their torches.

Georgie sits on the landing, gasping, as the rest of the group wanders the tower-top, which is bare except for an empty, throne-like chair. She can hear their exclamations of surprise and dismay at the lack of Jonah Magnus, though the words themselves don’t quite register, for the most part. They’re all confused, frustrated, disappointed in varying measure. A handful of brief arguments break out and resolve themselves while Georgie tries and fails to regain her breath for a duration of time that would terrify her if she were still capable of it.

The whole time, Melanie sticks close to the stairs, one hand resting firmly on the nearest of the concrete pillar, lost in thought. When the others troop despondently back to the stairs, ready to call the whole endeavor a failure, she says, “Wait.”

“For what?” Basira snaps, and then passes a hand over her face. “Sorry. But really, for what? Magnus must have seen us coming, must have—gone somewhere to hide. And if Jon can’t tell us where he is, then no one can. Staying here’s not going to help us.”

“I think he’s here,” says Melanie quietly. “I think we just can’t see him.”

“How?” Basira asks.

“Think it’s me,” Georgie gasps. “There’s something _wrong_ here. It’s making me sick. I think.”

“Then we should—what? Send Georgie back down the tower alone?” Basira seems skeptical. Georgie doesn’t blame her; she’s not entirely sure how she’s going to make the descent, alone or otherwise.

“Maybe…” Melanie hesitates. “You guys said there was a weird throne thing, right? Georgie, do you think you could go over to it? Maybe if you get closer to him...”

“I can try,” she says, and lets Basira pull her to her feet. The lethargy is deeply uncomfortable, but it doesn’t hurt, she reasons as she steps over the boundary from the landing to the tower-top. So she should be able to—

_snap_

goes the tension in the air, and the WRONG WRONG WRONG of the Panopticon strikes Georgie like a sledgehammer to the soul. She’s vaguely aware of falling onto the cold concrete floor, vaguely aware of the others shouting something, but she’s somewhere she’s not supposed to be and it’s _bad._

She comes back to herself in bits and pieces. First there’s the awareness of her breathing—quick and shallow and panicked-sounding. Then comes the ache of bruised hands and knees from the way she’d fallen, and the sick churning in her stomach. And then there’s the light.

Georgie looks up.

She’s not inside anymore; the concrete atrium that surrounded the Panopticon has vanished. She can see for miles and miles; the whole city of London is spread out beneath her, and the countryside around it, and the _sea_ around that, and how can she possibly _see_ the _ocean_ from here? It should be impossible.

Except that as her disbelieving gaze travels up to the horizon, she realizes that _impossible_ is a meaningless concept here. The arched roof of the tower has been blown clean off, as if by an explosion. The broken stone pillars that appeared from the stairs to support it stand no taller than head height, all of them half-pulverized and leaning outwards. 

And in the place where the roof used to be, _literally_ close enough to touch, is the Eye. 

The lightless, endless depth of Its pupil yawns overhead, and the glossy, oily-reflective surface of Its cornea is _real_ in a way it never has been before. Georgie can see a dozen, a hundred, a thousand scenes of terror reflected in Its surface; she can see the faces of myriad people twisted in fear and agony as she witnesses their suffering. It’s fascinating. It’s voyeuristic. It’s—

Georgie retches as guts she hadn’t even known she _had_ rebel. 

When she more-or-less has control over her faculties again, she takes a look around. Melanie is slumped against the pillar, trembling, tears streaming down her face. Daisy seems similarly incapacitated, curled up and twitching on the ground. Martin is covering his face, as though trying to hide from the awful thing above. Jon and Basira are... 

She swallows. Jon and Basira are both staring straight up at the Eye, unmoving, transfixed. Basira’s blindfold is lying on the ground beside her.

Georgie climbs unsteadily to her feet. Once she’s not in imminent danger of falling over, she makes her way over to Jon and shakes his shoulder. “Jon? Jon!”

“You _are_ persistent, aren’t you?” asks a voice like an oil slick.

The WRONG surges up again, forcing an answer from her throat. “Yes,” says Georgie, unwillingly, as she turns toward the source of that voice. There, upon the throne at the center of the Panopticon, is Jonah Magnus. 

The eyeless body in the ornate chair is ancient, the skin wrinkled, the hair graying. But the chest still moves faintly up and down, even though the mouth does not speak. The voice issues from the body beside the chair—the one with the cold, cruel smile and the piercing, pale eyes. 

Georgie reaches into the pocket of Basira’s jacket and pulls out a corkscrew. 

Magnus—the younger one—just laughs. “Please. You’re welcome to try that if you’d like, but I’m afraid you won’t get anywhere.” He grins, showing offensively white and well-kept teeth. “You’re not the first to have reached me, after all.”

Georgie’s mutinous stomach sinks into her toes. Now that she looks closer, she can see the scars of deep gashes around his eyes, and traces of red-brown on his face. The front of his shirt is black with what she begins to suspect is dried blood.

So much for that plan. Georgie wonders briefly what had happened to whoever had gotten here before, but there are no tracks, no visible corpse, and no convenient note with advice to the next would-be assassin lying around, so she supposes it’s unlikely she’ll ever find out. She scowls, and pockets the corkscrew.

Magnus _tut_ s. “Really, you don’t have to be so _sullen_ about it. I know how reluctant you were to take matters into your own hands. This should be a relief for you.”

“Shut up,” she snaps, and shakes Jon’s shoulder again. “Jon, can you hear me?” 

Jon’s mouth moves, but Georgie is suddenly very sure it’s not him moving it. “No,” says his voice.

She swallows hard and turns to Basira instead. “Come on. We need to leave, come _on—”_

“They can’t understand you,” Magnus tells her, smugness dripping from his voice. “They’re not actually aware of what’s happening anymore, too overwhelmed by the sight of their— _our—_ patron. But the others will probably recover. If you can get them far enough away, that is. I won’t stop you.” He chuckles, glancing up at the Eye as if sharing a private joke. “I already have everything I want.”

Something in the way he says it makes Georgie scoff. “This? Really? An empty tower in the middle of nowhere, and only yourself and a gigantic Eyeball for company? You spent, what, two hundred years to get _here?_ Why?”

He doesn’t answer. Not immediately, anyway. But then the Eye _twitches,_ just slightly, to fix more intently upon him, and he says, sounding strained, “A throne. And eternal life.”

Georgie narrows her eyes. “Eternal life.”

He must have been watching when she and Melanie had tried to get into the archives, what feels like a lifetime ago, because he catches on to her train of thought immediately. “Please. Do you really think the blessing of one of the other Dread Powers will help you here? Here, in the heart of the Ceaseless Watcher’s domain?”

The Eye fixes on her now, and she has to answer. “I don’t know,” she says, honestly. “Do you?”

He takes a breath to say _no._ She can see his mouth beginning to form the sound, the denial that will signal the failure of this ill-fated quest.

“Yes,” says Magnus. Says the man whose credulity—whose _belief_ in the power of his own ritual—had been strong enough to break the world.

Their eyes lock. Georgie takes a step forward. Magnus takes a step back.

“I have a secret,” says Georgie. “Do you want to hear it?”

* * *

The first time that Melanie had approached the Institute after everything had changed—the first time she’d come into the direct sight of the Eye—she’d been afraid. Terrified, even. She’d thought that that feeling was the worst, most viscerally _awful_ thing in existence.

She’d been wrong. This is worse. This is _so much_ worse. 

There is nothing but her and the Eye. There has never been anything but her and the Eye, and there never will be. It will see her and see through her, and Its vision grows clearer and stronger with every passing moment, and It will never falter, never blink.

Except—

Except that It _does_ blink. Not slowly—Its gaze is only interrupted for the barest of moments—but that’s enough. For an instant, Melanie sits in the heart of the Ceaseless Watcher’s domain, and it cannot see her. When its gaze returns, she’s afraid again—but not like she was before. Though the unnatural terror still makes her shake as though she’s about to fall to pieces, her body is her own again.

“Georgie?” she calls out. It only occurs to her after the fact to be worried about the answer. If there’s no reply...

But she needn’t have been afraid. Not this time. “I’m all right,” says Georgie. Her voice is thin and flat, but it’s still _there,_ and Melanie could cry with relief. “I’m all right. Magnus is gone.” 

“Oh,” says Melanie faintly, as Georgie walks over and wraps her up in a too-tight embrace. “Good.” 

* * *

“The Eye is still there,” Melanie remarks some time later. Georgie had had to go down nearly a full turn of the staircase before the tower had reverted to normal physics, and they’d all followed, eager to get as far away from the throne—and the heap of dust on its seat—as possible. Melanie is nearly dead on her feet, and Georgie is being unnervingly quiet, just holding onto Melanie as if her life depends on it. 

“Yes,” says Basira from a few steps above, sounding even more exhausted than Melanie feels. “I... I don’t think we’re going to get rid of it so simply. Or any of them, for that matter.” 

“Pity,” says Melanie. 

“It’s a start, though,” croaks Jon. “I, for one, am not free. I don’t think I ever will be, really. But I can feel the difference. The Eye doesn’t have anything to focus on anymore.” 

“We should probably destroy the throne,” says Martin weakly from even higher up. “Just in case.” 

Returning to the platform is beyond agonizing, and it takes all of them (sans Georgie, of course) to move the damn thing, tired as they are. But by some miracle, it’s not secured to the ground, and when Melanie hears it shatter on the concrete of the atrium floor far below, it’s the sweetest music she’s ever heard. 

* * *

One hour after the death of the man who broke the world, six people walk out the front door of the Magnus Institute, side by side by side. They are tired and tearstained, and the shadows under their eyes are deeper than ever before. 

Five of them were not witnesses to his death, present in body though they were, and felt only relief when his short reign came to an end. One of them was, and she felt nothing at all when he crumbled to dust before her. She will continue to feel nothing for a number of days yet. But she has re-learned how to live before, and this second recovery will be quicker than the first.

They have all already realized that today was not the culmination of their efforts, but rather one more piece of a lifelong labor. But for now, they will go home, to a quiet rest that no one in history, recorded or forgotten, known or lost, has earned quite so thoroughly. And tonight, they will dream no dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: severe nausea; implied/referenced eye trauma; minor character death; physical proximity to a very, very large Eye
> 
> Just the epilogue left now! I hope you’ve enjoyed the ride.


	17. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are a number of small victories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [NevillesGran](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nevillesgran) for beta reading!
> 
> Content warnings in the end notes.

There’s a knock on the door. 

Martin glances up from his book. It’s been a while since the last time someone’s knocked on his and Jon’s front door unexpectedly. But there’s a first—or, next, he supposes—time for everything. Maybe it’s someone who needs help. Maybe it’s a neighbor, come to borrow milk or sugar.

That thought makes him laugh as he goes to see who it is. That really would be a sign that the world is returning to normal, wouldn’t it? An opportunity for him to have an awkward and unnecessarily long conversation with a stranger.

But it’s not a stranger; Georgie stands on the other side of the peephole, fingers tapping absentmindedly on the strap of her shoulder bag as she waits. 

Martin opens the door immediately. “Georgie, hello, come in! Everything all right?” 

Georgie nods as she steps inside. “Oh—yeah, everything’s fine. I was just in the area and thought I might drop by to say hello.” 

“Well, it’s nice to see you again,” says Martin, closing the door behind her. “Can I offer you anything? Cuppa?” 

“Actually, that would be really nice, if you don’t mind? It’s so much colder out than I expected this morning.” 

He puts the kettle on, and he and Georgie lean against the kitchen counters opposite one another to wait. “How’d today’s show go?” Martin asks. 

“Oh, the usual,” Georgie replies. “Had a few technical difficulties, but that’s normal. A handful of people called in about Jon’s un-monstering thing, too, so that’s nice. Good to know that it’s working out.”

“Oh, that’s lovely, I’ll make sure to tell him,” says Martin, and Georgie smiles.

Martin had been worried, when she and Jon had decided to give their old friendship another shot in the aftermath of Magnus’s death, that his own jealous tendencies would muck things up, one way or another. But he needn’t have worried; after the time he and Jon have spent together, relying on one another, building up a foundation of trust and understanding, he can’t feel anything but happy that Jon has other friends again. And it hadn’t taken long for Georgie to become  _ his _ friend as well. The therapy that he and Jon had both finally gotten around to arranging has been surprisingly helpful, too, for all that it’s still weird and new.

When the water is ready, he prepares two cups—decaf, despite the fact it’s never quite as good, in deference to the evening hour. And then, after a moment’s thought, he prepares a third. 

Georgie notices, of course. “Is he awake?” 

“Not sure,” says Martin. “But he doesn’t usually sleep for long stretches, so I figured, might as well. He’ll probably wake up before it gets too cold.” 

“Is he still arguing for a bigger broadcast next time?” Georgie sips the tea delicately at first, and then drains half the cup in one go. “Okay, I give up.  _ What _ is your secret?” 

“I’ll never tell,” says Martin primly. “And I helped talk him out of that yesterday.”

Georgie fiddles with the handle of her mug, setting it down on the counter. “He  _ is  _ okay, right? Not… this whole broadcast thing isn’t some kind of… self-destructive—?”

Martin shakes his head. “Nah. I mean, he definitely tends to overwork himself as a general principle, and I think he still feels pretty guilty sometimes over how long the whole thing is taking? But he’s taking pains to rest up enough not to worry me, so...” He can hear his voice edging towards mushiness, and huffs out a half-chuckle. “But you didn’t come here just to listen to me talk about Jon. How’s Melanie doing?”

Now it’s Georgie’s turn to smile fondly. “Good! On a massive audiobook kick, actually. It’s a good thing the libraries are all reopening—I think she’s gone through about a dozen books in the past three weeks alone.” 

“It’s funny how...  _ normal  _ things feel, nowadays,” Martin remarks. 

“That’s the human spirit for you.” 

Martin lifts his cup in a mock toast, and Georgie picks hers up so that they can clink them together. 

“I should head home,” says Georgie after she drains her tea. “It was lovely talking to you again, though. See you the day after tomorrow at the studio?” 

“I’ll be there,” says Martin, walking her to the door. “Say hi to Melanie for me? Oh, and give the Admiral my love.” They hug briefly before Georgie heads out into the crisp evening. 

Martin settles back onto the sofa, the extra cup of tea sitting covered beside him to stay warm. He briefly toys with the thought of digging up his notebook, but discards it when a shuffling sound heralds Jon’s arrival. 

He’s wrapped in a blanket and wearing a jumper that Martin could have sworn had disappeared from his own wardrobe a month ago, and he settles against Martin’s side without a word. He still has entirely too many eyes, but they mostly stay closed nowadays, and don’t glow except for a bit here and there; he tires himself out too much with his frequent commandeering of public announcement systems to maintain the sort of power he’d had in the weeks following the breaking of the world. He hasn’t found a way to escape the necessity of poking through other people’s nightmares yet, but Martin is looking forward to the day that he figures it out. 

He’s also still holding out hope that at some point, Jon will figure out that resting is a good thing that he should do more of. “Jon, sweetheart, you should try and sleep.” 

“I can sleep here,” Jon mumbles. “See? Eyes closed.” 

Martin reaches over to stroke the hair out of Jon’s face. His ring catches the light. They haven’t settled on a date yet, but they’ve been talking about it. Another good thing to look forward to. “All right, I suppose you can stay,” he teases gently, retrieving the teacup from the end table and handing it over. Jon smiles over the rim in thanks. 

“Did you at least get some rest earlier?” Martin asks.

“Some,” says Jon into the teacup. “I was mostly talking with Daisy, though.”

“Oh? How’s she doing?”

“A little bored, I think. But enjoying the quiet.”

Martin hums and reaches for his book again. Jon’s head falls against his shoulder, and he can feel the faint prickle of Jon’s attention against the side of his face. He can’t help a chuckle. “Something you want?”

“Will you please read out loud?” Jon asks, and Martin does.

* * *

Georgie arrives home to find Melanie puttering around the kitchen, the Admiral watching intently from on top of one of the cabinets. Georgie is careful to make her footsteps heavy enough to hear as she walks through the flat. 

“Hi, Melanie,” she says, setting her bag down. Melanie turns in her direction with a smile.

“Hey,” says Melanie. “How’d the exorcism go?” 

“Oh, come on. How can it be an exorcism if there wasn’t a ghost?” Melanie laughs, and Georgie smiles in response. “It was fine. Bit boring. All I did was sit around for a few hours until everyone else calmed down.” 

“Georgie Barker, savior of the London Underground,” Melanie jokes. 

Georgie snorts. 

“Georgie Barker, single-handed banisher of the spooky haunted dirt train—” 

“Oh, please, you  _ know _ that wasn’t a haunting, we knew  _ exactly  _ what was causing it and it  _ wasn’t _ a ghost—” 

Melanie continues to come up with more and more extravagant titles over Georgie’s protests until they’re both wheezing and the pasta is done. As they sit down to dinner, Melanie says, “Oh, I forgot to mention, Daisy called.” 

“Oh? She and Basira still on holiday?” 

“Yup. Wales is very green, apparently. Who would’ve thought?” 

Georgie laughs. “I stopped by Martin and Jon’s on my way back. Martin says hi.” The Admiral chooses exactly that moment to attempt to climb onto the table in search of additional dinner, and Georgie shoos him onto the floor, adding, “Yes, he says to give you his love too, Your Seaworthiness. Now calm down, you’ve already eaten.” 

Melanie laughs at the title like she always does, the tiny dimple in her right cheek that only appears when she smiles punctuating her mirth. Georgie has to catch her breath. 

Later that night, as Melanie tosses her arm over Georgie’s waist and gets comfortable, Georgie says, quietly, “Melanie?” 

“Hmmm?” 

“I love you.” 

“Mmm.” 

“A lot.” 

“Mmm-hmmm.” 

“I just wanted you to know,” mumbles Georgie, feeling a little silly. 

But Melanie squeezes her tighter, and murmurs against the nape of her neck, “I do know. Love you too,” and Georgie drifts off to sleep with a light heart. 

* * *

“You, too. See you in a few days.” Daisy hangs up the phone and putters around for a little while before digging her beaten-up old laptop out of her suitcase. She glances up a few minutes later when Basira comes in the door, adjusting her new, less-delicate blindfold and carefully making her way over to the sofa by touch. Her headaches have been getting better recently, but she still wears the blindfold most of the time.  _ Better safe than needing to blind myself permanently down the line, _ she’d said when Daisy had asked.

“Hey,” says Daisy. “Nice walk?” 

“Yup. Weather’s nice. We might have to deal with the Spiral in a day or two, but it looks kind of tame compared to that mess from last week. Anything happen while I was out?” 

“Couple of phone calls,” says Daisy. “Jon and I caught up a bit. He did another one of his mass de-monstering things. He sounded kind of out of it, though.”

Basira hums, wrestling with her shoes. 

“Melanie called, too,” Daisy continues. “She’s singing the praises of some very prolific mystery author or other who has about a million audiobooks in the library.” 

Basira perks up. “Did she pass along any recommendations?” 

“Mmm-hmmm. I even took notes this time.” 

Basira makes grabby hands at Daisy, but she shakes her head, forgetting momentarily about the blindfold. “Nope. You have to listen to The Archers with me first.” 

Basira gives a dramatic mock groan, but curls up on the other end of the sofa readily enough, pulling the throw blanket off the armrest and tossing it over her legs. Daisy only just manages to get the computer out of the way of the trailing edge in time. 

“I still can’t believe you managed to get a working internet connection on such short notice,” Basira comments idly. They’re in another of Daisy’s safehouses; one she’d written off years ago with the introduction of decent cell and internet service to the local area. She had never bothered to actually have so much as a phone line installed until they’d made plans to stay here a month or so ago, though. 

“Oh, I have my ways,” she says as she brings up an archive of back episodes. 

“You bribed someone, didn’t you.” 

“‘Bribe’ is such an ugly word—all right, all right,” Daisy laughs as Basira makes as if to stand up and leave. “No, as a matter of fact. Apparently, a bunch of guerrilla telephone company technicians up and installed fancy new cables all over the place around here once the internet decided to start mostly working again. We just got lucky.” 

“Bet the phone company  _ loves _ that.” 

“Mmm.” Daisy finally finds the episode she’d gotten partway through last time and queues it up. Basira jokingly complains, as always, but her protests are as comfortable and worn-edged as Daisy’s favorite jumper. 

Daisy sets the computer down and lets herself slouch back into the slightly lumpy sofa. It’s not long now until she and Basira will need to go back to London and figure out how best to lend their friends their support. She finds herself feeling slightly conflicted; for a holiday, the past week has been more than a little dull. But it’s been so long since her life was properly dull. Maybe, if she’s careful, if she keeps herself slow and quiet for long enough, she might be able to squeeze a whole life out of these gray-and-sepia moments. Out of spending hours with her friends, talking about not much, doing not much more, just… existing, as herself. Living for the small joys that she never knew how to appreciate before.

She thinks she might be able to get used to it. 

* * *

The great Eye continues to watch. A dozen and more other terrors haunt every corner of the world. But the billions of tiny, ephemeral creatures who unwittingly created them continue to live, and care, and hope.

Earning victory over the mess that Magnus made of the world will be a slow and arduous process. Perhaps the changes he wrought will be reversed completely someday. Perhaps they will not. (The future is never certain, after all.) Certainly, the world will never be the same as it was before. 

But that was true of yesterday, and it will be true of tomorrow as well. And if there is one thing the erstwhile Archivist and his companions are sure of, it is this: a peaceful life, and the satisfaction of knowing others around them are better off for their help, are the only victory they need.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: reference to possible future eye trauma.
> 
> Thank you for reading :) If you liked this story, let me know! Hearing back from you all is the highlight of my week.


End file.
